Once Upon a Time
by thisisforyou
Summary: COMPLETE! An exploration of an alternate canon wherein John and Sherlock meet briefly during high-school but have both forgotten each other by the time they meet up again. What will it mean for them now when they finally admit that they remember? And what has it done to their lives apart? Well, it's a small world, after all. M for smut.
1. Prologue

_St Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital, 2009_

Sherlock lifted the dropper and held it, poised over a Petrie dish filled with his latest experiment. Molly Hooper, the pathologist from the mortuary downstairs, had just sent him a text confirming his theories on his latest case; the man had been beaten _before_ he was killed, which made the Yard's suspect's alibi perfectly solid; eyewitnesses had placed him three blocks away five minutes before the victim was murdered.

Like a fox in a meadow, he'd transitioned immediately onto the next distraction. They were all pressing until they were solved, but at the conclusion he darted away like a frightened butterfly to the next place of safety and interest. His mind rebelled at stagnation.

He heard voices in the corridor outside the lab and looked up; this lab was on the top floor and hardly used by anyone except the staff, and even them only on occasion. That was why he used it so often, because technically he wasn't staff. He was only allowed in here because Molly had taken pity on him, once upon a time. But the voices did not belong to the mousey, shy woman. They were men's voices, one he recognised, one he didn't.

A brisk, cursory knock announced them before the two men entered; Mike Stamford, a lecturer to the third-year oncology specialists, and another man, who entered the room with a wry, old-man's comment of, "It's a bit different from my day."

Sherlock smiled tightly and looked up; the second man was short and stocky, his face comfortable in the haggard look acquired by men who have been through extreme circumstances, a plastic standard-issue cane swinging idly in one hand. _Right leg. Psychosomatic. Army doctor. Abroad – Afghanistan, maybe. Or Iraq. No way to tell. Pension isn't enough to sustain his living style – Stamford's brought him here as a potential flatmate. Bless him, he thought I was serious. _He made as if to look away, but then something – something in the way the newcomer moved, held himself, gazed around the laboratory with steely, determined hazel eyes – twigged in his memory.

"You've no idea," Mike replied airily. Sherlock, recovering himself from the search for the memory that seemed to be right on the tip of his tongue, busied himself hastily in the experiment, picking up the dropper again.

He wanted to find out more about the man, needed more information to pursue the recollections hiding at the edges of his subconscious, like chasing someone's heels around the corners of a labyrinth. _More information. That reminds me._

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" he asked quickly, as usual skipping pleasantries. Perhaps if he behaved as he usually did, the man would venture the information on his own. "There's no signal on mine."

Mike Stamford frowned, and Sherlock could feel it boring into the top of his head as he refused to look up. "What's wrong with the landline?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I prefer to text."

"Sorry," Stamford shrugged innocuously. "It's in my coat." It wasn't, Sherlock could tell. That was the problem with Stamford: he could be quite stubborn, and entirely the type to cut off his nose to spite his face, or whatever the expression was. Sherlock frowned slightly at his Petrie dish.

"Oh – here," cut in a firm, solid voice that again pulled on the tinkly bell of memory at the back of Sherlock's head. "Use mine."

Sherlock looked up at the man, rummaging in the back pocket of his jeans –_ cheap but sturdy, limited income but not willing to skimp on quality: sensible – _and then at Stamford, fishing for an introduction. _A name. Just give me a name, and I'll remember. _"Oh," he said, the surprise not entirely false. "Thank you."

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," Stamford introduced finally as Sherlock started to weave his way and accept the phone from the doctor. _Smartphone. Second-hand. Inscription on the back – Harry Watson. Brother? Alcoholic. Married, separated. Not liked by John – John. John Watson. I still don't remember – why can't I remember him? It must have been a long time ago._

Sherlock took the phone and flipped it open, locating the messaging application without difficulty. _If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH. _As he tapped out his message to the Detective Inspector on their case, he cast a quick glance at John Watson. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked. _Not that it matters. I haven't been to an army base in either, so that isn't it._

John Watson's head tipped to the side and Sherlock felt like screaming with frustration. Why couldn't he remember, when with every little thing he did this man pulled the strings to make his brain dance? "I'm sorry?"

"Which was it," Sherlock repeated patiently, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He could feel Stamford smirking as John looked down at his leg. "Afghanistan… sorry, how did you –"

The door opened and Sherlock snapped away to greet Molly as she brought him coffee, but his brain wasn't in it; John Watson was in the corner of his eye, stoic and firm but _broken_-looking, and he knew without remembering anything that the doctor had not been broken when they had met before. Because they _had_ met before, he knew that surer than he knew anything, and he was Sherlock Holmes.

In that moment, when his mouth fired off something that probably wasn't very nice to the young pathologist and turned away to take a sip of the frankly insipid coffee, he made up his mind. For whatever reason, he couldn't remember John Watson, and the fact that he _wanted_ to so badly had to mean that he'd been important. Once upon a time, John Watson – whoever he had been – had been important to him.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about stopping them. Never mind that he hadn't been serious when he'd challenged Stamford to find him a flatmate, never mind that he'd never had one or _wanted_ someone so close so often before. John Watson looked around as though checking Sherlock wasn't speaking to someone else. "Sorry, what?

Sherlock took a deep breath. _Here goes. If he doesn't remember me by the end of this, I'll… be extremely puzzled. _"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

He gave a crude approximation of a bright smile, feigning indifference. John Watson looked taken aback, and he felt his smile slide into something real at the knowledge that he'd surprised and even impressed the bold army doctor. John Watson looked accusingly over at Stamford. "You told him about me."

Stamford was looking pathetically smug. Sherlock felt another flicker of irritation. He couldn't be given the credit for this – whatever _this_ was, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was one of the most incredible coincidences that fate could ever throw his way. "Not a word," the lecturer said smugly.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John Watson asked; Sherlock could hear his own irritation reflected in the army doctor's warm voice. He smirked.

"I did," he replied brightly, half-turning back to John Watson as he shrugged his coat on as though this, the invitation, the proposition, had been his plan all along. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just returned from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." The difficult leap, he thought wryly to himself, was what came afterwards, ignoring the doctor's question about Afghanistan: "I've got my eye on a little place in central London; together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow, say, seven o'clock?" He tossed the doctor another smile, wrapping his scarf around his neck, preparing for a hasty exit so he could drop the air of complete composure. "Sorry, I've got to dash – I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

He was almost at the door, struggling to breathe – he hadn't felt this constricted, claustrophobic, _desperate_ since he'd first met Julien in high school – when John Watson called him back. He sounded annoyed. "Is that it?" he said loudly. Sherlock stopped, forcing himself to breathe normally. _Julien_. Why was that sticking in his mind?

"Is that what?"

John Watson snorted incredulously. Sherlock had the distinct impression he'd missed something important, _again._ "We've only just met, and we're going to go and look at a flat?"

Sherlock shrugged. He needed to get out, to think about how his old university friend was related to this wounded army doctor. "Problem?"

Said army doctor exchanged a disbelieving glance with Stamford. "We don't know a thing about each other! I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your _name._"

He blinked a few times. He was so nervous that it started pouring out of his mouth, though he could feel his face stay firmly in place; Stamford would think he was just showing off, no break from the norm. _I know you're an army doctor who's recently been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him; possibly because he's an alcoholic, but more likely because he's just walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be getting on with, don't you think? It's not –_

He realised he was talking out loud and quickly shut his mouth and successfully kept the last sentence in his head. _It's not enough for me. There's more, I know there is. You know it too, I can see it in your eyes. What happened between us, John Watson?_

He forced a smile, the claustrophobia constricting his chest until he was sure he must be deathly pale – how did he not _look_ like he was about to collapse? – and swept out of the room. This time, John Watson didn't say anything. Sherlock allowed himself the smirk as he reached the door, and then turned back, remembering the rest of the doctor's complaint.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." In keeping with his usual brevity, despite his hitherto dormant nerves screaming at him, he clicked out an insouciant wink and waved at Stamford on his way out. "Afternoon!"

Outside, once he'd swept around the corner out of view from the laboratory, he leant against the wall and breathed deeply. _John Watson. John Watson. _Thinking of Julien had stirred something in his memory – had he met John Watson around the same time, during university or the end of high-school? He closed his eyes, willing himself to remember. He remembered disappointment, and restlessness, and a ride on the tube back to his French lover's arms.

_John. Oh, God, _John…_ how could I have forgotten you? _

Suddenly every moment floods back, the smell of chlorine in his nostrils, the wall of the hospital growing sharp and textured into his memory.

_Seventh form. 1992._


	2. Chapter 1

_Holmes Manor, Knightsbridge, 1992_

"…_is going to be another beautiful day in Paradise, perfect for the start of the new school year. By that, of course, I mean torrential rain and gale-force winds, high of seven degrees. Over in Glasgow, we have a similar picture –"_

Sherlock Holmes hit out at the alarm clock until the Yorkshire weatherman shut up, rolled over and went back to sleep.

"…_and scored the deciding goal in the final two minutes of the match, bringing Arsenal back up to third on the tables in time for the coming game with Chelsea this Saturday. And in cricket, India has once again knocked Sri Lanka for six in another show-stopping performance…"_

In a flash, Sherlock was out of the bed, the antique Samurai sword from the display stand beside the bed in his hand and pointed unwaveringly at the young man with the radio alarm clock at the end of the bed. "Get _out_, Mycroft."

The impeccably-dressed young man smiled thinly. "Good morning to you, too, brother. I trust you remember what day it is?"

Sherlock pouted. "Of course I remember what day it is. Otherwise I wouldn't have set the alarm."

Mycroft Holmes tossed the radio onto the bed and poked at a beaker with the end of his umbrella. "But I see it wasn't enough to stop you staying up into the small hours with your little _experiments."_ Sherlock was very careful to keep the point of the curved sword pointing at his brother, and eventually the elder stopped his fiddling. "Do try to get yourself together in time this morning. Mummy will have a _fit_ if you miss the train _again._"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. They both knew their mother couldn't care less, and Mycroft's casual statement rubbed that in like salt over an open wound. He'd missed the train into London for the last three years running, and he didn't see why today should be any different. Tom, the chauffer, was probably expecting to drive him all the way into the city anyway. He smirked. "Fine."

Mycroft made a disapproving noise, but left the bedroom. The moment the door shut behind him, Sherlock flopped back onto his bed.

"_Now,_ Sherlock."

He stuck his tongue out childishly at the door, but got up and dressed anyway. His reflection watched from the mirror on the dresser, gangly, slightly gaunt, with high cheekbones and wild curls. He glanced at it carelessly, adjusting his shirt-collar and running a hand through his hair. The Samurai sword was given one last cursory swing before being fitted back into its stand.

Sherlock looked around his bedroom one more time. It didn't look any less cluttered now than usual; most of his things remained here during the school term. School was merely a means to an end; there were far more interesting things in London than his teachers droning on about things he either already knew or couldn't care less about. Last year he'd managed to worm his way into a lab at St Bartholomew's teaching hospital by flirting with a young intern, so laboratory equipment wasn't hard to come by.

"How is it this morning, Captain Sherlock?" Margaret, the maid, placed a plate of toast and a cup of Earl Grey in front of him. He gave her a sickly smile in return. She'd always called him Captain; when he was a child he'd been adamant that, law or not, he was one day going to be a pirate. He couldn't convince her now that he wasn't a child anymore.

"To what would you be referring, Margaret?" he asked, carefully keeping his voice over-the-top cheerful. She rolled her eyes and left without elaborating. He pulled a face at her retreating back.

"Terrorising the household staff, Sherlock?" Mycroft remarked idly. Sherlock ignored him. "Tom is ready for your bags when you are finished. You have half an hour, Sherlock – _don't_ be late this year."

Sherlock put down his mug. "All right, Mycroft: I'll make sure I get the train if you promise not to spy on me all year."

Mycroft pursed his lips. Since Sherlock had left to board at Cuxton Grammar, when Mycroft had already left home, he had taken to paying people at school to report on Sherlock's behaviour and grades. His younger brother had waltzed out of university and right into a position in the government, which had done wonders for his already voyeuristic nature. He wondered sometimes how long it would be before he was plugged into the CCTV feeds.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock knocked cautiously on his mother's door. "Mother?"

Her imperious voice drifted back to him. "Mycroft, is that you?"

His heart sank a little. "No, it's Sherlock. Can I come in, please?"

She sighed. "If you must."

Her room was dark, the light filtering through the wine-red curtains drenching everything in tainted light. His mother's room had always been a source of nightmares for Sherlock. Nothing except disappointment ever happened to him in there.

Vienna Holmes sat up against the headboard of her massive bed while Margaret plumped her pillows and spooned runny honey over her toast. "What do you want, boy?"

Sherlock stood at the foot of her bed, hands behind his back, ramrod-straight. _Shoulders back, chest out. Speak up, child. _"I'm going back to Cuxton today, Mother," he told her politely. "I came to say goodbye."

"Oh, is that today?" Vienna asked disinterestedly. "Well, Tom will drive you there. Do try not to get into any trouble this year, won't you, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mother," he said demurely.

She sighed again. "Is Mycroft still here?"

Sherlock looked down, feeling bile rise in his throat. "Yes, Mother. He's downstairs having breakfast."

She smiled happily. "Mycroft was always such a perfect son," she said. "You should try to be more like your brother."

Sherlock's brain catalogued three hundred and twenty-seven reasons why he didn't want to be like Mycroft. He gritted his teeth. "Yes, Mother."

"Well, off you go." She waved a hand tiredly at the door. Sherlock gave Margaret a despairing glance; once upon a time, she had sympathised with the favouritism Vienna showed her eldest son and tried to encourage her to interest herself in Sherlock. She hadn't got very far, but it had been comforting to know someone was trying. Now she just shrugged and looked pointedly at the door. He supposed he must have lost her support when he stopped wanting to be a pirate.

Tom the chauffer grinned a gap-toothed smile at Sherlock as he hefted his suitcase out the door. "Morning, sunshine!" he called. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back. He knew he was Tom's favourite; many a journey had been spent in idle mockery of his brother. He secretly hoped he wouldn't get the train today.

Tom seemed to drive purposefully slowly, which made Sherlock smile, and when they finally arrived at the station it was to see the London Central train pulling away from the station. Tom smirked into the rear-view mirror. "What a shame," he said conspiratorially. "Lots of traffic on the road today, wasn't there, Sherlock?"

He returned the grin. "Oh, it was murder," he agreed idly. "I don't know where all these people come from."

An hour and a bit later the car pulled up outside Cuxton Grammar School. Tom threw another backwards glance at Sherlock, who smiled wistfully. "Have a good year, Master Holmes," he said after a pause. Outside the car, they could hear the screams and yells of teenagers reuniting.

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Doubt it," he rejoined. "But at least it's the last one."

"That's right," Tom grinned, getting out of the car and hoisting Sherlock's bag into the air. "Always look on the bright side."

Within ten minutes Sherlock was inside the hall, being jostled about by other students. A first year tripped on his way past and positively barrelled into him, almost knocking him off his feet. "Watch your feet," he told the boy sharply.

"Sorry!" the kid chirped and skipped on past. Sherlock rolled his eyes and made the climb to the seventh-form boarding floor.

Directly outside the elevator was a burly blonde boy surrounded by adoring girls in too-short skirts. Sherlock huffed a sigh as he realised they were blocking his way. "If you can still move in that outfit, I suggest you do it now," he drawled lazily. They turned around to see who was talking. The girls parted, looking horridly affronted and adjusting their skirts self-consciously, but the boy stepped in front of him.

"Oh, look," he said menacingly. "It's Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled brightly. "Oh, look," he mimicked. "It's…" he stopped in mock-puzzlement. "What is it again? I'm usually good with names, but yours continues to escape me." The boy scowled, but didn't reply, so Sherlock tutted and pushed him aside. "I suggest you abandon the plan you were forming, too," he threw back airily. "I think you'll find it rather difficult to sleep with _all_ of these girls."

He left the sounds of the girls turning on the boy behind with a wry smirk and hauled his bag down the hallway until he found the door with the neatly-printed label, _Holmes, Sherlock._ He pushed open the door.

Typically, the room was sparsely-furnished and unspeakably plain. Within hours, he knew, every teen on the floor would have papered their walls with posters of Bowie, Michael Jackson or Madonna, but he usually left his room as he found it. It was just a bedroom.

He fell onto the crisply-made bed with a sigh and stared at the ceiling.

_One more year, _he told himself. _Then I can be free of this farce of society and learn how to start living._

He didn't know - and probably wouldn't have cared – that on the other side of London a boy called John Watson was thinking the exact same thing.


	3. Chapter 2

_Islington High School, 1992_

John woke up grumpy.

He wasn't quite sure why, he just woke up with a sort of vaguely irritated feeling vibrating just under his skin and he knew that anyone who annoyed him even a _little _bit today was going to get it. He stood under the hot spray of the showers attempting to discern which side of the bed he'd tumbled out of, and how it compared to the orientation of his bed back at home, but after a while he decided that couldn't be the problem. He was just in a bad mood.

It was the first day of school. He felt he was entitled.

As he went down to breakfast and collected his timetable to discover that his first lesson for the year was Statistics, he figured he was doubly entitled, and that even if he _hadn't_ woken up in a grump he sure as hell would be in one now.

He sat down, introduced his head to the table, and groaned.

"Oh, come on, Watson, it hasn't even started yet!" someone yelled, accompanying the statement with a vicious slap to his back and the _thump_ of a bottom hitting the seat beside him. John glared up at the boy, who met his frigid stare with a wide and altogether too mischievous grin for that time of morning. "I don't want to see this defeatist attitude. I want you _upbeat._ McAuliffe's gunna slaughter you if you don't bring your best game."

Oh, fantastic. John added another reason to be in a bad mood as he looked back down at his timetable and confirmed that he did, indeed, have Mr McAuliffe for Statistics. He sighed. "It's too early for this shit," he complained.

Bill Murray seemed to consider his best friend for a moment, drumming his fingers impatiently on the Formica table. "Porridge," he concluded finally. "With extra sugar. And coffee."

Without waiting for John to confirm the order, he got up and danced away. John rolled his eyes at the retreating body, thin but deceptively strong and wiry, his red hair standing out like an Olympic torch, ignoring both gravity and the pityingly obvious attempts the boy had gone to to brush it into some kind of submission. John let himself smile a little bit. But only a little bit.

Bill jammed a bowl of porridge dusted with sugar like a mountain range in front of him, followed more carefully by a mug of steaming coffee, which John made a beeline for. He had a feeling he was going to need it. The wiry redhead nursed his own cup of black coffee with a kind of fervour that betrayed the amount of caffeine already coursing through his system.

John sighed. "How many cups of that stuff have you had this morning?"

"I've been down here for half an hour already waiting for you," Bill replied in a tone of mock-affront. "That gives me time for… what, three? Four maybe? It's addictive, I'm telling you."

Between mouthfuls, John had time to fix his friend with a stern look. "Yeah."

But Bill was no longer listening; his fervent green eyes had fixed on the door, and his whole body had suddenly become still. John looked around wildly. "Oh, John," Bill breathed. "It's _her_ – how does she look so _perfect? _Don't _look_, you fool!"

John froze in his attitude of turning around. "Why not? I can hardly be more obvious than you. And shut your mouth, you're drooling."

The taller boy blinked and hurriedly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; finding it dry, he glared at John, who chuckled. "Well you may laugh, John," he said stiffly, "but one day you'll find someone who captivates you as much as Hannah consumes _my _attention."

"Yeah," John said wryly. "And when I do, please shoot me." Bill tried to look offended, failed, and chuckled into his coffee.

A moment later, he was back to staring in the girl's direction with the worst kind of wistful look on his freckly face. John wasn't kidding about wanting to be shot before such a look ever graced his own features. Bill sighed. "I don't know why she hates me so much," he said dramatically.

John put down his own mug. "Oh, boy. Shall I refresh your memory?" Bill shot him a mischievous grin. "That time last year when you sang _Love Me Do _to her in the middle of dinner in front of all her friends? I'm not even going to _start_ on the wildly inappropriate pick-up lines for fear one of the supervisors wanders past and I get a detention to add to my list of reasons why today is _not_ going to be a good day."

Bill pouted. "I worked hard on those."

"Some of them were so bad I think my ears died."

"But _some_ of them were pretty good, right?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Name one."

"The Peter Pan one?" he ventured hopefully. "_If I was Peter Pan, you'd be my happy thought…" _

There was silence as John stared incredulously at Bill, trying not to laugh. After a moment, he gave up. "Yeah, all right," he relented. "Come on, or we'll be late for General McAuliffe."

John and Bill took seats comfortably in the middle of the classroom, which was piled high with textbooks and posters featuring extremely bad Math jokes. John smirked at the one featuring the argument between pi and iota (iota was telling pi to 'be rational', while pi retaliated with 'get real'). Bill was busy figuring out what seating posture gave him the best view of Hannah at the front of the class when the door banged dramatically and McAuliffe sauntered in like a drill sergeant.

Mr McAuliffe was a squat, well-rounded little man with blonde hair that looked for all the world like a toupee but wasn't, thick eyebrows, startlingly blue eyes and a toothbrush moustache at least five shades darker than his hair. In his usual entry fashion, his eyes were narrowed and his posture hunched so that his chin jutted over his Fairisle vest in an attempt to create a military and menacing air. Coupled with the moustache, he ended up vaguely resembling Adolf Hitler. It was understood that one of his ancestors had been a general in some war or other, which had led him to be given the nickname of General. Unfortunately his first name was also Terence, which gave rise to the other, more popular nickname among the cheekier of the senior students.

This, unfortunately for almost everyone involved, included Bill.

The silence held for a few moments as those blue eyes swept over the room. Then the teacher nodded shortly. "Good morning, class."

John groaned as the class collectively let out a breath. "Is it? Oh, God."

McAuliffe noticed his distinct lack of enthusiasm and rounded on him threateningly. "Did we disturb your beauty-rest, Mister Watson?" he asked sardonically. "Holidays too short for you?" John went to answer, but Bill beat him to it.

"Well, sir, John was at boot camp all summer."

One dark caterpillar of an eyebrow crawled upwards. "Is that so? Well, I hope they _booted_ you good and proper."

A few titters came from the distant edges of the class from those that weren't far too acclimatised with the man's particular brand of punning. John smiled wryly. "Oh, sir," someone drawled. "Would you like a glass of water? Because that joke was _dry._"

McAuliffe's other eyebrow floated up to join the first and he turned vaguely around to the boy who had spoken. "Is that right, Mister Glendenning?" he asked. Bill shifted in his chair.

"Yes, sir," he protested loudly. "It was _Terry-_ble."

John couldn't hold back the snort; he was joined by at least half the class. McAuliffe idly turned to face the two of them while John frantically tried to make his face co-operate with him to force the smile off itself. Bill, however, smiled back innocently until the teacher grunted slightly and turned away. "Right. Seventh-form statistics and modelling. Our plan for the year starts with a refresher of some very basic algebra…"

Bill turned back to John as soon as the man's attention was directed away from him. "When did you get back from that camp thing anyway?" he asked in a low voice.

"Last Sunday." John shut out McAuliffe's course plan with ease. Bill grimaced.

"And I take it being beaten up and forced to exercise for two weeks hasn't squashed your ridiculous desire to join the Army?" he said.

John rolled his eyes. "Of course not. They'll pay for me to go to med school, as long as I serve a bit of time as a medic or something afterwards. There's a pretty big chance I'll never even get called up."

"Yeah," Bill said sarcastically. "But there's a little chance you _will_, and you'll get shot. It's always the little chances that end up happening."

"All right, Marvin. I'm not asking you to come." Bill grinned at the _Hitchhiker's Guide_ reference and reluctantly turned back to the admittedly striking colour-coded calendar McAuliffe was drawing on the whiteboard. Then he turned back.

"Do they really _pay_ for you to go to med school?"

* * *

><p>Unsurprisingly, they left class an hour later having learned nothing at all. It was the first day; everybody avoided actually teaching their restless, holiday-moded students. Bill stretched theatrically. "I reckon Terry's losing his touch," he mused, rubbing a hand ruefully through the bed of red hair. "There was a time he'd have popped me for those quips."<p>

"Maybe he just didn't want to give you detention on the first day," John suggested. "Besides, he likes you playing his word-games with him."

Bill shrugged. "What've you got now?"

"Biology. Wish me luck." They exchanged knowing looks, which John thought was slightly odd as Bill had dropped all three strands of science in fifth form and so had no idea what seventh-form Biology was going to be like. "What've you got?'

The taller boy grinned suddenly. "English." It was his favourite subject, but John often wondered how much attention he was really paying to his grammar and how much was going instead to the body of the young female teachers that populated the subject.

"Try not to flirt with the teacher too much this year," he advised, patting his friend on the back. Bill grinned back.

"Considering I've got Mr O'Doherty, I don't think that'll be too much of a hardship." John chuckled as they parted ways. The Biology labs were on the bottom floor of the Tower building, so he hotfooted it down the stairs as fast as he could. Ms Roper didn't like latecomers.

On the third landing he heard a low, familiar voice. John's eyes narrowed and he stopped on the stairs, slowing down until his footsteps were soundless.

"_Why'd you come here, then? Didn't they want you over in Ireland?" _

John made the final few steps and turned the corner onto the landing. A lithe, dark-haired boy was pressed up against the wall, a large, tan hand holding his upper arm in place. "I'd advise you to let me go," he said calmly, his Irish accent a soft and rather pleasing lilt. John couldn't help but admire the fact that the younger student – fifteen, John guessed – still looked like he was perfectly in control.

"Oh, yeah?" the bigger student asked, his hold tightening enough to bruise. "Why's that? What're you gunna do to me?"

The boy's dark eyes flicked over and fixed on John; his assailant followed his gaze and froze when he saw what the younger boy was looking at. "Watson," he said, smiling gruesomely. John smiled back, thin and mirthless.

"Carl," he replied easily. "You know, I think he's right. It'd probably be best for you to let him go." He let his fingers curl absently into a fist. Once upon a time, Carl Powers had thought John himself would be an easy target; after he'd had his nose broken, he had apparently settled for smaller, younger students. John had never seen the skinny Irish kid before, which probably made him even more of a target. Anyone who'd been at Islington High for any length of time knew that Carl Powers was to be avoided like he carried some kind of disease.

"Or what, Watson?" he said now. John grimaced again.

"Do we really need to go there?" he asked. Carl's thick lips twitched into something that more or less exactly failed to look like a smile.

The boy leaned against the wall, into the bigger boy's grip. He actually looked _bored. _"What's this guy to you?"

"He's my brother," John bluffed idly. Carl's smile vanished. "No, not really. Are you going to let him go now, or am I going to have to explain to Ms Roper why I'm late _and_ nursing bruised knuckles?"

Theatrically, Carl took his hand off the younger boy's arm, leaving him to slip slightly down the wall before he regained his balance and tugged at his shirt coolly to straighten it. John rewarded the bigger boy with a bright smile as he sauntered off, making sure to bump shoulders painfully with him on the way.

"In case you didn't learn that lesson, stay away from Carl Powers," John told the boy lightly. They started moving down the stairs together. "I'm John."

The kid rubbed his bicep gingerly. "Jim," he introduced. "And yeah, I did kind of get that for myself."

John chuckled ruefully and looked the kid up and down. He was wearing a dark button-down shirt and black jeans, dressed more sharply than the rest of the students. He was handsome in a sophisticated sort of way, brooding features and rather piercing dark eyes. "So, you're from Ireland?"

Jim looked at him, his expression slightly scathing. "Obviously." John blinked, taken aback by the abrupt answer. "This is me," he parted, turning sharply into the History corridor and waving a hand languidly in farewell. "I'll see you around, John Watson."

John stared after him, offended. Not even so much as a thank-you for intervening with what would have become an increasingly volatile run-in with Carl Powers. "Not bloody likely," he muttered finally, and took the last two flights of stairs at a run.


	4. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: **The character of Julien was borrowed (with permission) from the lovely and unfairly talented Mirith Griffin and her story _Control, Alt, Delete_, which if you haven't read you definitely should.

* * *

><p><em>Cuxton Grammar School, Central London, 1992<em>

Sherlock ended up being early to Chemistry.

After half an hour of restlessness around the five o'clock mark he had succumbed to the urge to move, and found himself in front of the bay windows in the common room watching the sun rise. The library didn't open until seven, and he was less than confident at the librarian's ability to procure any more informative books over the summer.

There was something about watching the sunrise that he liked, too. It was calming in ways and yet invigorating in others; Sherlock got lost trying to track the moment where the first and last sliver of sunlight slipped free of the trees backing the Cuxton estate. But as soon as the orange clouds faded and the sun made itself known, it lost its appeal somewhat.

The library turned out to be just as dull this year as it had been in the last, and so Sherlock found himself arriving at Lab Four ten minutes early for Chemistry, as opposed to his usual calculated five minutes late. Because it was the first lesson of the year, almost everyone else was also there already, having basically sprinted in order to get the best seats and the lab partner that they wanted.

It was a tradition of Mr Gibbon's that the person you shared a bench with on the first class of the year became your lab partner for the entire course. Sherlock always arrived late so that he could pretend it wasn't his choice to be lumped with the student who had barely made it into the course and couldn't really care less. In reality, he liked it that way; it meant he could do everything himself and not bother waiting around for someone else to keep up.

He walked into the class and looked around; most of the seats had already been filled, but there were three or four empty seats that he scanned critically, before making his way to sit beside Julie Simpson, who was looking vacant and seemed to be drooling onto her desk.

"Sherlock Holmes."

He stopped sharply and turned towards the voice. He kept himself to himself at Cuxton, and while he knew people talked about the way he knew more about his subjects than the teachers did and the way he had no friends, no-one ever dared to say anything to his face; the people who had tried at first soon found out that Sherlock could more than make life unpleasant for them if he wanted.

Sitting beside one of the empty seats was a boy Sherlock had never seen before, smiling softly at him. His expression was almost eerily calm and collected compared to the riot of pubescence around them; Sherlock's eyes automatically narrowed as he looked the stranger up and down. He was very distinctly French, upright and poised, immaculately dressed with fastidious care – gay, but comfortably so. He met Sherlock's gaze steadily from vivid green eyes, his plush, sculpted lips curving up in a slight smile. The bones of his face stuck out elegantly, his jaw square and his cheekbones so sharp as to be almost serrated. Sherlock swallowed. How did the boy know his name?

"Julien de Richelieu."

The searching eyes widened in surprise, the slight smile tugging wider. "Have they been talking about me already?" he asked. Sherlock looked around at his classmates; he should have guessed that they would try to warn the new kid away from him. He shrugged contemptuously.

"Probably, given your father's status. Your name's written on your books, though."

Julien de Richelieu made the cursory glance down at the lever-arch binder on his desk, and smiled. "Of course. You are very observant." Sherlock shrugged again. "Would you sit down with me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again. "Are you sure? We'll be stuck with each other all year. I'm… a demanding laboratory partner."

"Then I think we will get on very well," de Richelieu parried, still smiling. Sherlock gave one look back at Julie Simpson before sliding into the seat beside the French boy and dropping his bag to the floor. Julien winced slightly as it hit the ground. Sherlock smiled. This was going to be interesting; de Richelieu was a neat-freak and he, Sherlock, loved chaos.

"So," he said abruptly, yanking a book out of his bag. "How do you like London? The weather must be difficult after so long in the tropics."

One elegant brown eyebrow arched skywards. "The tropics?" he asked coolly.

"That's where you came from, isn't it? You're quite clearly French, but your accent is a mixture of dialects. You seem quite comfortable with your place in a new school, so it's obviously something you're used to. I'm guessing your father is a French ambassador, going by the amount he travels… or somebody high-up in a major French government sector? Something to do with law enforcement, going by your military neatness. Your skin is dark, but the tone of your cheekbones is browner than your chin, which suggests it's a tan gained over time. You're still a little bit hesitant with your English, so I'm guessing the last place you lived was a French-speaking country. The Seychelles would be my guess. How far off is it?"

Julien de Richelieu's eyebrow trembled slightly. "That is correct," he said, his lips curving upwards slightly. "You notice a lot, Sherlock. I heard you were different, but everyone refused to elaborate. You seem to have frightened off the entire school with this talent of yours."

Sherlock shrugged. "They're intimidated that I can guess their secrets. Teenagers always have something to hide."

The corner of de Richelieu's mouth quirked upwards quickly and his browned hand slid closer to Sherlock's on the bench, a teasing gleam in his green eyes. "What are _you_ hiding?"

"That would be telling." Sherlock smirked, fighting the urge to move his hand because he wasn't sure if he wanted to move it closer to the French boy's, or further away. "You, on the other hand, you already _are_ telling. The tell-tale marks of a faded bruise on your left cheekbone, slight discolorations where it's happened before – you've been used as _someone's _punch-bag. This level of neatness usually suggests that you're intimidated by someone in your family and didn't want to give them reason to get angry as a child – father seems more likely. The pattern of the bruising is of a fist – women don't punch, they slap. There isn't much feminine influence in any of your appearance, so I'd say your mother isn't around much, which is probably the reason your father takes it out on you. You've come to London from the Seychelles on your own – you would've made a grander entrance if your father had been around – so you were running away from him."

De Richelieu drew in a slow breath, his fists clenching on the desk. Sherlock flinched. People didn't usually like having these kinds of secrets mentioned out loud, but he'd said them reasonably quietly and he was confident no-one had heard them. "Don't worry, they didn't hear," he said. "I suppose I'm trying to escape my family, too."

After a moment, the boy breathed out again, his grip on his blue biro relaxing. He chuckled; Sherlock looked up in surprise. "You are quite brilliant," de Richelieu told him gently. "That is remarkable. No wonder people are intimidated by you."

A surprised smile weaved its way onto Sherlock's face. _Brilliant_ wasn't something he'd ever been called before, not without the slightly patronising, clinical tone applied by primary-school teachers. "Thank you," he said. Julien de Richelieu smiled.

The door behind them banged open with all the theatrics that could only be attributed to a teacher; sure enough, with a world-weary grunt, the flabby, sweaty shape of Mr Gibbon waltzed into the room, brandishing a spiral-bound exercise book and crushing the arms of students leaning beyond the narrow confines of their desks. Sherlock pressed slightly closer to Julien de Richelieu to avoid being bulldozed; the French student chuckled lightly.

Instead, of course, the uneasily fat man stepped on the corner of his bag, and Sherlock heard a plasticky _crunch_ that signalled that he would need a new pen. He sighed. De Richelieu grinned at him.

Gibbon made his way to the front of the class and slapped his book down noisily on the desk. At the noise, the rest of the class quietened hurriedly. The man's piggy little eyes narrowed viciously. "Good lord," he said eventually, his deep boom of a voice echoing genially around the room. "You lot look even more gormless than last year. Just when you think things can't get any worse…" He scanned the rows of seats, occasionally barking out an order or separating a pair that he disapproved of. Then his eyes lit on Julien.

"I see we have a new student," he said, his voice settling into a vaguely menacing lilt. "Stand up, boy, and introduce yourself."

If his tone was meant to unsettle de Richelieu, it failed; he stood up smoothly, patting down his white dress shirt. "Julien de Richelieu, Mr. Gibbon," he introduced calmly. Sherlock noticed wryly that a few female heads turned, impressed, when they heard his silky French accent, and their eyes widen when they saw his chiselled, elegant face. They were all about to be disappointed.

Gibbon nodded shortly. "Very good. Where are you from, then, and then sit down."

"My family is from Paris, originally, sir, but I have just moved from the Seychelles." He sat down as Gibbon's attention was transferred elsewhere, rolling his eyes. _"Imb__è__cile," _he muttered.

Sherlock chuckled, and replied without thinking. _"Tu n'avez aucune idee," _he said. The French boy's head whipped around so fast his straight dark fringe flicked into his eyes.

"You speak French?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Only rudimentary," he admitted carelessly. "My grandmother refuses to learn English, so we learned the basics."

He looked up at the other boy as Gibbon started barking at them to get out their books and pens to find that he was smiling softly again. "I could teach you the rest, if you like," he offered. Sherlock dug the splintered remains of a pen out of his bag. He always neglected to bring spares. "Here." De Richelieu spun a biro effortlessly between his fingers before offering it to Sherlock, who took it gratefully.

"Thanks."

"For the pen, or for the offer to learn French?"

Sherlock fiddled with the biro. "Both," he said airily, turning to Gibbon before they got snapped at. "But I might pass on the French for now."

"You are not used to having people want to talk to you," de Richelieu guessed languidly.

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "People usually run as far away as they can after I tell them about their family crises."

De Richelieu returned the chuckle. "But I haven't," he surmised. "And you are not quite sure what to do with me now, are you?"

He didn't really want to admit to that, so he smiled tightly. "Why, what do you suggest?"

"Oh, I could suggest plenty of things," the other boy smirked. Sherlock frowned; was de Richelieu _flirting_ with him? "But for now, I think you should not be so quick to turn me away. A friend is often nice to have."

Sherlock considered this. He'd managed fine without a 'friend' for most of his life – certainly through all of his time at Cuxton. He could still feel the French boy's eyes running appraisingly over his face and there was a slight air of one walking up and down in front of a line of racehorses, judging each one. From what he'd seen of de Richelieu so far, they seemed quite similar. Perhaps it would be best if they stuck together; without Sherlock's ability to parry physical blows with verbal threats, the other boy would become a target for the big and stupid boys, especially if they found out he was homosexual.

"All right," he said finally. "Thank you."

Julien smiled warmly. "Thank _you_."

"Holmes!" Sherlock jumped as Gibbon's voice barked through the room. He turned to look at the teacher, fixing his usual innocuous smile on his face. "I see your manners haven't improved over the summer. Am I to assume that you know everything already about the topics that you will be examined on this year?"

"Most likely, sir," Sherlock answered honestly. They hadn't taught him anything last year, so he was hesitant to believe that they could raise their game in the final year. "Titration, aqueous systems and organic chemistry this year, isn't it, sir?"

Gibbon narrowed his eyes piggishly. "Can you describe the ranking of the periodic table in terms of the elements' reactivity, then, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock did so lazily; he'd finished most of the study materials for seventh-form after his first summer in the library. Gibbon huffed and gave up on him. He smiled innocently.

Someone in the table behind him murmured: "God, Holmes, you're such a freak."

He turned around quickly; the girl bore an expression of extreme distaste that was so carefully arranged as to be a cover-up for some other emotion, probably jealousy. He smirked. "At least I know the answers. When he gets angry at you, you'll just look stupid."

Sure enough, as she opened her mouth to retort, Gibbon's barking voice echoed through the room. "McDougall!" Sherlock smiled at the girl brightly. Julien chuckled.

"So, is this what you must deal with all the time, then?" Julien asked idly, trying to move his lips as little as possible so as to avoid Gibbon's eye.

"It'll die down once they get used to school again," he replied. "Though I'd keep your sexuality under wraps, if I were you."

Julien smirked. "Not that you know this from experience, because you obviously do not have any," he said gently. "Experience, that is. Sexually." His green eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's shocked grey ones and his smirk widened in amusement.

"Would you like some?"


	5. Chapter 4

_Islington High School, 1992_

John heard Bill's voice again as he reached the door to the dining hall. This didn't tend to mean anything; Bill's slow drawl carried rather spectacularly, and he almost never bothered trying to regulate it. He stopped and looked around, just in case.

"It was a valid point, though, sir."

The voice that accompanied it was considerably quieter; dry and cynical like reeds rubbing together in the wind. "Perhaps, Mr Murray. I feel it was the execution we took exception to."

John rolled his eyes. Apparently Bill had managed to offend Mr O'Doherty already. "Oh, come on." Bill's red mop bounced cheerfully around the corner. "I don't know why she got so – I was _complimenting _her."

Mr O'Doherty, tall, lanky and looming, rolled his eyes and caught sight of John. "Ah, Mr Watson!" he called. John flinched. He'd liked O'Doherty, but he got the feeling the teacher wouldn't be quite so amicable towards him since he'd dropped the course over the summer. He'd liked English, but it wasn't relatively important for his chosen career path. He smiled tentatively.

"Hello, Mr O'Doherty."

The English teacher laced his long fingers behind his back and strolled up to John, tipping his practically two-dimensional frame until he loomed over him. John stood up straighter. "What's this about you not taking English this year?"

John caught Bill's eye behind his back and supressed a smirk at the _here-we-go_ expression on his friend's face. "Yeah, I'm really sorry about that. It just wasn't going to be helpful with where I want to go."

"English is _always _helpful," Mr O'Doherty said sternly. John failed to supress the bark of laughter that came when he saw Bill mouth his exact words behind his back as he said them. He tried hastily to turn it into a cough. Mr O'Doherty glanced behind him and smiled wryly. "Yes, all right, I know. But I mean it more than the other teachers. I mean, Physics – pfft. One can live without physics. And the worst one – _life skills_. I couldn't believe it when they came up with a course called _life skills._"

Bill grinned. "Yeah, who needs life skills, eh, sir."

O'Doherty smiled fondly down at him. "Well, not to point any fingers, Mr Murray, but some of us certainly need some coaching in how to interact with women. I'm sure you're an expert in that, aren't you, Mr Watson? I'll leave Mr Murray in your capable hands."

"Cheers." Bill sauntered over and slung an arm around John's shoulders. John shared a conspiratorial grin with the tall teacher and dragged his friend into the diner. "Tell me you didn't make a comment about some girl's boobs," he pleaded when O'Doherty was out of earshot. Bill looked sheepish. "Oh, for God's sake. You really don't help yourself, do you?"

The redhead chuckled unconcernedly as they made their way – Bill's arm still around John's shoulders – to the lunch line. "I'm sure she wasn't as offended as she made out. She still likes me."

John stopped in the middle of ladling sweet-chilli sauce onto a salad. "Oh, Bill. It wasn't Hannah, was it?"

"What? No, I'm not that stupid." Bill shook his head as though John was being ridiculous. John snorted.

"Could've fooled me." He dodged the arm slung in the vague direction of his face and frowned. "I'm not sure whether to be relieved you didn't make a comment about Hannah's chest or scandalised that you were actually _looking_ at another woman."

Bill pouted. "I wasn't _really_ looking," he said sulkily. "Where shall we sit?"

John surveyed the dining hall. A few people waved or smiled at them; most people at Islington High knew Bill and, by extension, John. Then he caught sight of the Irish boy from earlier, sitting alone at a table in the corner, and stopped. Even though the younger boy was the picture of composition, staring coolly around at his fellow students and picking lazily at a Thai beef salad, John still felt a twinge of pity in his stomach at the new kid having to sit alone.

Slowly, Bill stilled and looked from John to the Irish boy and back again. Then he sighed. "New kid?" he asked.

"Yep."

He looked him up and down, then glanced around the hall furtively. "Carl Powers' new squeeze?"

"Yep."

Bill nodded factually. "Well, come on then, Protector of the Small. Can't leave him on his own."

Without further ado, the redhead made off in the direction of the almost-empty table. John shook his head in quiet amusement and followed. "Thanks. What would I do without you?"

"Protect the bullied on your own and get into a lot more scraps," Bill replied airily. "You're too BAMF to ever change."

John frowned, grinning despite himself. "I'm too _what?_"

"B-A-M-F. Bad-ass mother-you-know-what. All the cool kids are saying it."

"Promise me _you'll_ never say it again, then." Bill aimed another slap at him – badly – and threw himself bodily into the seat beside the calm-looking boy. John lowered himself into the seat opposite him. "It's Jim, right?"

The Irish boy looked up from his cellphone, an expression of quiet surprise on his face. "Yes, it is," he agreed. "John."

Bill slapped the lid on his ham sandwich and stuffed an alarming amount of it into his mouth. "I'm Bill," he managed around the protrusions of sprouts and grated carrot. Jim grimaced. John laughed.

"Can I help you two with something?" the quiet Irish boy lilted out. John looked around awkwardly – was it bad that he hadn't even considered the fact that Jim might prefer to be on his own?

"Er… you don't mind if we sit here, do you?" he asked. Bill swallowed his enormous mouthful with some difficulty. Jim smiled; John noticed it didn't quite touch his dark eyes.

"Of course not," he said diplomatically, plunging his fork into the depths of his salad again. Bill chuckled.

It seemed to signify the end of the conversation, but John wasn't going to let it go so easily. Jim wasn't like the last few people John had rescued from the arms of Carl Powers, and instead of just introducing him to some like-minded students and leaving it at that he wanted to get to know him a bit better. He wasn't sure he _knew_ any 'like-minded students' Jim might get on with; he'd thought that everybody fit in _somewhere_ and it was just a case of finding out where, but he didn't know _anyone_ he'd put Jim with. "So whereabouts in Ireland are you from?" he asked brightly.

Jim smirked around his mouthful. "Donegal. But my family lived in Dublin for the last six years."

"I've always wanted to go to Dublin," Bill voiced, slightly whimsically. John grimaced.

"Yeah, and I've never understood that. No offense or anything, Jim, but I've been there, and it's nothing to shout about."

The Irish boy smirked again, but this time it was friendlier and more real; John smiled back. "None taken. Dublin's a shithole."

"It is a shithole."

Jim's laugh was high and strong. John shared a grin with Bill at having made the cold boy laugh. "That's why I got out as soon as I could."

Bill frowned around his sandwich. "I?" he asked. "Not 'we'?"

Jim shrugged unconcernedly. "Yes. I came here by myself."

"What about your parents?" John felt something itch at his skin like a chill without temperature. He held back a shudder as Jim repeated the casual shoulder-movement.

"They died. About six months ago."

Bill stared. "God," he invoked, sending John a feverish _what-now? _glance. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, they weren't very nice." The look in the sad, dark Irish eyes quite plainly said _don't you dare pity me. _So John tried not to.

Bill, too, took the hint and changed the subject. "So, John, how was Biology?"

"Well, other than being late, it was a whole lot more interesting than General McAuliffe," he replied nonchalantly, feeling the tense, tightly-strung atmosphere relax as Jim blinked and looked away. John marvelled at how the boy controlled everything, like a spider in the middle of a web – he suddenly wondered whether that made him some kind of trapped insect, and how quickly he could get away. It was ever-so-slightly uncanny, the way he'd seemed so calm even held mere inches away from Carl Powers' face with a death-grip to the upper arm that would probably bruise. "How was English, other than your less-than-appropriate remark about some girl's cleavage?"

He didn't miss the slightly disdainful glance Jim sent the older boy as Bill sniggered. "Well, you know O'Doherty," he said nonchalantly. "I think he likes me."

"No doubt," John replied dryly. He thought Bill was probably right; most people tended to. It was difficult to _dislike_ Bill Murray with his unflappably cocky attitude and constant sunny optimism.

Jim coughed delicately. "So you two both take Statistics with McAuliffe, then?" he asked.

John nodded. "Yeah. Why, do you have him too?"

"Yes." The cocky smile on Jim's face was almost similar to that adorning John's best mate's; John found himself wondering whether he was only imagining the slightly uneasy feeling he'd had before. It was very hard to tell. When his head started up a vague ache, he gave up. "In fact, I'll probably be in your class from next week."

Bill inhaled a piece of grated carrot. "What? In seventh-form Stats? But you're what, fifteen?"

"I'm a few years ahead," Jim admitted, shrugging it off. "Maths comes easily to me."

"Jesus," Bill lamented, his tone good-naturedly mocking. "Maybe you could tutor me. I'll get tutored in Statistics by a fifteen year-old kid. Try telling that one to the ladies."

There was a delicate cough from behind them. "Telling _which_ one?"

Jim smirked, turning to share the expression with John as Bill choked on a bean-sprout, whipping his head around at the sound of Hannah's voice. "Um, nothing, darling. It wasn't… I was just…" The blonde visibly tried to hide a smug little smile as Bill stuttered, looking at John for assistance. "It was more a figure of speech than anything, I…"

"Whatever, Murray, I'm not here for you anyway," she cut off finally. Bill looked mildly deflated for a moment. "John, my friend Sally won't be here this week because her family's still in the Bahamas or someplace crazy like that. She was wondering if you could take Biology notes for her."

John blinked. "Um. I guess," he said blankly. He'd been in Sally's class last year, but they'd never talked or anything, and Sally didn't strike him as shy. "Aren't there people she's… you know… closer to who could do it? I mean, I don't mind doing it or anything, it's just… unexpected."

The girl stretched indolently, her green eyes briefly flickering in Bill's direction before lighting back on John. "Of course there are, but we both know what's really going on here."

He hated to prove her wrong, but he didn't have a clue. He _hated_ it when people assumed he knew what was going on. "Oh." Bill sniggered, and a memory of Sally's wild curls and bright eyes bouncing in his direction proved the final tap of the puzzle piece into place. "Oh! Right. Um… well, yeah, okay, I'll do it. I mean, all I'll do is photocopy my own notes, that's all she wants, isn't it?"

"That'll do nicely," Hannah agreed. "Thanks, John. Good holiday?"

He looked from Hannah to Bill and back again. Why was she hanging around? The only reason the two of them knew each other existed was because of Bill. She couldn't _really_ want to talk to _him_ about his holiday. He supressed the resulting smile. "Yeah, it was all right, thanks. Spent most of it at boot camp, so not as relaxing as everyone else's, I hear. What about you?"

"Oh, well, that sounds far more interesting than mine. I just moped around home," she replied brightly. "Well, I should probably head off – my Classics class is on the top floor of the other building. It was nice talking to you, John!"

Bill scoffed as she ran a hand through her fringe and moved off. "Yeah, lovely talking to you, too, sweetheart," he bit back as she weaved through the tables. She laughed as she turned back.

"Not your sweetheart, Murray!"

Jim laughed languidly, dropping his fork with an innocuous clatter onto his empty plate. "Humans would have such easy lives if they'd stop pretending and just shag the people they want to," he commented idly. John almost jumped at how strange the word _shag_ sounded coming from those elegant lips.

"Huh?"

He nodded in the direction of Hannah, his lips curling into a smirk at Bill's nonplussed face. "Her. She so _obviously_ wants you, it's almost sickening how she's trying to make you jealous by flirting with your best friend. She's only pretending to be interested in _you_ because she knows you won't believe her," the Irish boy drawled, nodding in John's direction. "I never understand why people – what's the term? _Play hard to get_. With the general stupidity of the human race, it's likely pretending to not be interested will ensure you miss out on the person you want entirely."

The two seventh-formers exchanged nonplussed glances. Jim spoke about the 'human race' as though he wasn't one. However, what he said about them practically epitomised John's view of things. There wasn't any point in pretending not to like someone, because if they never found out then what chance did you have? That was one of the things he liked most about Bill. Sure, he could be hugely indelicate with it, but at least there was no doubt in Hannah's mind that he was interested in her. He hummed his agreement to the statement.

Bill leaned forward, suddenly interested. "How did you know she was interested in me?" he asked eagerly. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Please. All those little flicks of her eyes to the side? Even though she was making a conscious effort to be close to John, she was still standing right beside you. And the fact that she came over here in the middle of lunch, when she could have just had a quiet word with John somewhere less conspicuous or, if she really wanted to avoid you, somewhere you weren't around." Bill leaned his head to one side as though considering the likelihood of things adding up to an answer he liked, but he was grinning. The younger boy pushed back his chair and stood abruptly. "Well, this has been fun," he drawled lazily. "I suppose I'll see you two around."

Even after Jim was gone, Bill stared dreamily at the door. "Do _you_ think she likes me?" he asked after a while. John snorted.

"Of course. Actually, I agree with almost everything Jim said. I wouldn't have phrased it quite like he did, but still… if you like someone, let them know. I think if you handled it a little bit _nicer_, you'd have the right idea."

Bill looked at him in mock-affront. "_Nicer?_"

"Well, you have to admit you're kind of in her face. You come at her so strong it almost scares _me_ sometimes, so God knows how _she_ feels about it." He hefted his bag back onto his shoulder and picked up his plate, tapping Bill sharply on the shoulder to get up. "But was it Shakespeare who said that thing about loving someone being the best way to make them love you?"

"Yup," the redhead replied easily, joining him on the trek through tables towards the door. "Much Ado About Nothing."

John snorted. "Yeah, thanks, Mr Britannica. So what've you got now, then?"

"Media. I think if she – oh. John, thug alert, two o'clock."

He looked up in the direction Bill indicated; sure enough, Carl Powers and a group of three flunkies were making their way past the dining-hall. John rolled his eyes and tried to walk past unnoticed, but he didn't get far before the slightly nasal voice called back to him.

"Hey, Watson!"

John and Bill exchanged _here we go _glances. "What, Carl?" John replied politely, turning around to face the bigger boys. It was odd, he mused, how some people looked as though they were born to be bullies.

Powers leered unpleasantly. "I saw you cozying up to that Irish freak in there."

"Did you?" John feigned surprise. "Good to know your eyesight's improved. Can I ask how long you talked to him for before you decided he was a freak?"

A slight twitch seemed to develop spontaneously below the boy's left eye. "He _is_ a freak. He _knows_ things. It's not normal. You didn't see the half of what was going on up there earlier. _He_ started it."

"Like hell he did," John responded. "He's half the size of you. Of course he's going to pick a fight. Leave him alone."

Powers clenched his fists and took a threatening step towards the two boys. Bill faked a yawn. "I reckon it's _you_ that should leave that freak alone, Watson."

Bill snorted with something that sounded like impatience. "Or what, Powers?" he asked boredly. "Get out of the way, we'll be late to class."

Carl Powers stepped aside, but the smirk on his face wasn't a nice one. John frowned at him. "You'll find out," he said, with a theatrical mysterious air that somehow gave him the most intelligent voice John had ever heard him use. "That boy isn't normal."

After the group was out of earshot, John looked at Bill and sighed.

"I told you it wasn't going to be a good day."


	6. Chapter 5

_Cuxton Grammar School, Central London, 1992_

They sat on opposite sides of the table, Julien de Richelieu picking delicately at some kind of sandwich, Sherlock gazing intently at him with his fingers tented critically in front of his lips.

"You've never done it before either."

The French boy's green eyes flicked from the door, where they'd been idly resting as though unaware of the avid stare he was receiving from across the table, to Sherlock's face. His lips curved up elegantly. "I didn't say that I had." One thin, feminine finger crept up and snagged a tiny drip of mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth. "I only asked if you wanted to."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, still slightly suspicious. "Why?"

"Because if I want something, I ask for it," Julien replied, still smiling slightly.

Things clicked together. People had presented romantic affections to him before, but not in such a forward manner. "I'm not looking for a _boyfriend_ or a _lover_," he clarified, unable to stop the air of derision eating into the words. He couldn't _imagine_ becoming someone who had one of those; 'love' seemed like such an unclear term for the complete and utter abandonment of sense and reason.

Julien actually chuckled. "Good," he said, his voice humming with amusement. "I was not offering you one."

He blinked. "Oh." He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to be pleased with this. He was sure it wasn't flattering, and yet he couldn't deny that it was the outcome he wanted. But what did the other boy want, if not a _relationship_? "Could we be quite clear about what you _are_ offering, then?"

His new friend set aside the crusty end of his roll and leaned forward on his elbows nonchalantly. "I am offering to take you back up to your room and – how is it said here? – _bugger_ you until the bell rings for class." His green eyes registered amusement as Sherlock didn't move. "Or the other way around, I suppose. Whichever you would prefer."

Sherlock's eyes flickered immediately to the clock above the door. "That would only give us ten minutes," he noted. He was a little sceptical of the offer – he'd heard it was very difficult to keep this sort of thing unemotional, and while he knew _he'd_ have no difficulty, he didn't want to suddenly have to deal with Julien's emotions. But he'd been listening to the talk for the last few years with the thought that he was probably missing out on valuable data points from not having experienced it. He knew how it was _supposed_ to work, of course, but how much of that was just boastful teenagers exaggerating how things had felt to make everyone jealous? He'd often wondered how something as simple as a body's natural function could cause so many problems. And where else was he going to find someone willing to experiment without getting attached?

Julien smirked. "Perhaps then we will have to wait until after Biology."

He grinned. Sherlock got the sense that some kind of business transaction had been completed, so he grinned back; Julien picked up the last of his roll and started picking at it carefully until Sherlock wanted to force his mouth open and stuff the rest of it in there. Sherlock never took his time eating. If he was going to do it at all, he was going to get it over with as fast as possible without inhaling his food and possibly choking. The French boy, however, seemed to be overly concerned with making his mouthfuls as small and delicate as humanly possible, making Sherlock's impatient nature scream with frustration.

_This is going to be interesting,_ he thought, unable to keep the smirk off his face.

He didn't pick up a word of what the Biology teacher was saying, not that it mattered in the long run. Through most of the lesson he was acutely aware of the fact that Julien's eyes were on him, and that the other boy's fingers were alternating between tapping out a bored sort of rhythm on the desk and stroking languidly down the page of his textbook the way one might stroke a lover's skin. He wondered if Julien was doing it on purpose.

"Why me?" he asked suddenly. Julien raised his eyebrows calmly. "I'm not saying no," he clarified. "I'm just curious. There are at least a hundred boys here more likely to say yes than I was."

The French student smiled. "Exactly," he replied. "I do not go for what is easy. But you struck me as one who would not be…" he paused as though to consider the words, a smirk playing with the corners of his thin lips. "_Sentimental_ about it. And I find you attractive."

Sherlock found himself gratified, even though he hadn't asked to fish for compliments. He'd deduced as much about the other boy finding him attractive, even if he couldn't quite see it himself; Margaret was always saying that he hadn't quite grown into his body yet, and his limbs were too long and gangly. Next to this immaculately-dressed boy who quite obviously spent a lot of thought on his appearance and bearing, Sherlock felt a little bit clumsy. He resolved to make an effort to be more graceful.

"So," Julien continued when the bell had gone and they joined the swell of students leaving the class for the boarding floors. "My bedroom, or yours?"

He appraised the other boy. "Mine's at the end of a corridor," he said finally. "So it's slightly more private. Also, being the 'new kid', people are likely to go knocking on your door to try and introduce themselves. I assume you don't want to deal with that?"

"You assume correctly," Julien smiled. "I think I have made already the only friend I will need."

Sherlock frowned. He still wasn't sure he wanted a _friend_, and he was fairly certain that other people's friends didn't offer them casual sex. But he'd never done anything by tradition, and, by the sounds of it, neither had Julien de Richelieu. "Good, then. We should –"

"Sherlock!"

He turned around to face the sound of the familiar, warm voice. "Mr Grieg," he greeted, with a smile that was really only half false.

The young, blonde teacher jogged the last few steps to catch up with them, grinning widely. "Have a good holiday? It's a shame you're not in my form group this year. I fought for you, but apparently they wanted to do it by your subject choice."

Sherlock smirked. He'd been in Grieg's form group last year; the blonde had been the first teacher who had actually tried to make a connection with him, and while it hadn't worked, he gave the man credit for trying. It probably helped that he taught Classical Studies, an area in which Sherlock had very little interest in, so Grieg had never actually tried to _teach_ him anything. "What a pity." He wondered whether the young man had 'fought for him' out of pity, or a genuine wish to talk to him.

"Mm. Can't fight the Senior staff, I suppose."

Sherlock had always found it appropriate that Joseph Grieg taught the Classics; he'd heard more than one group of girls in the school library waxing rhapsodic about his Aryan good looks. He suspected, though, that the reason they all liked him was that he completely didn't fit in at Cuxton; he'd grown up in a distinctly lower-middle-class environment and his accent still bore a touch of the North.

His blue eyes flickered in Julien's direction. "You're Julien de Richelieu, right? Nice to meet you. I'm Mr Grieg, I teach Classics. Probably not your area?"

Julien smiled diplomatically. "Good guess."

Grieg shrugged self-deprecatingly. "You're with Sherlock, you're almost definitely interested in chemistry." Sherlock glanced at the French boy and tried not to give away just how 'with' Julien he might be. "I thought you two might get on. Your father runs the Deuxiѐme Bureau, doesn't he?"

Both boys blinked. "What makes you say that?" Julien asked, his green eyes sparkling. Sherlock willed away an irrational twinge of jealousy.

"Hearsay. A position that important, word gets around with the staff," he interjected quickly. Grieg chuckled. "It'll get around the students, eventually, too."

"So, are you interested in crime as well, Julien?" Grieg asked.

Julien dipped his head. "Very much so, Mr Grieg. Something else I think Sherlock and I have in common."

"Yes, I think you might." Grieg shot Sherlock a sharp grin. Although he was fairly sure the young man hadn't understood very much of what Sherlock had told him about blood-spatters and DNA analysis last year, he'd certainly retained the idea of the interest. Sherlock grinned back. "Well, it was good to see you, Sherlock – and nice to meet you, Julien. I'd best get back, there's a staff meeting at four. I'll see you around."

"Yes," Julien agreed, watching the blonde man walk away with an odd, amused smile on his face. "I'm sure you will."

Sherlock shot him an incredulous look. "Do you just flirt with _everyone?_" he asked. Julien laughed.

"I have heard that this is what the French do. That teacher, he likes you."

They turned back and kept walking up to the boarding floors, then up the stairs. "Yes," Sherlock replied. "Although I think it's mostly based on pity. He noticed that no-one else talked to me, so he assumed I was lonely."

"Perhaps, but that is not what I meant," Julien said, his voice still sparkling with barely-contained mirth. Sherlock blinked.

A third-form girl came sprinting down the stairs and into the French student, knocking him onto the ground. Sherlock jumped out of the way and flattened himself against the wall as she picked herself up off him and brushed herself down before extending a hand to Julien to help him up. "I'm so sorry!" she squeaked. "I didn't mean to – I'm just really late and I wasn't watching! Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock finally recognised her: they'd shared the Chemistry lab during more than one lunchtime last year. "Molly," he greeted, putting a hand on her shoulder. She jumped a mile into the air and almost fell over again.

"Oh! Sh-Sherlock! I… I didn't see you." He made an effort to smile. The girl had helped him with a few experiments where he'd needed an extra pair of hands or someone to fetch something for him, so he usually tried to be nice in an attempt to keep the relationship in case he needed her again.

Julien brushed some imaginary dirt from the front of his shirt. "That's quite all right – Molly, did I hear?" he interjected. She turned back to him quickly, like a jumpy rabbit who didn't know which way to look. He extended a delicate hand. "I am Julien."

"Oh, are you French? That's lovely. I'm really sorry about running into you, it's just I'm running late for the bus, Chelsea wanted me to see her room. I'll see you later, bye!" She dashed off again, and Sherlock wasn't entirely surprised when he heard the sounds of her almost colliding with someone on the next floor down. He chuckled.

Julien straightened his tie. "_Mon dieu," _he muttered conspiratorially when she was gone. "Does _everyone_ in this school want you? I suddenly am feeling very lucky."

"Don't be," Sherlock replied. "She's probably the only one. And I think she admires my chemistry work more than _me_ personally."

They reached the seventh-form landing; the noise of the younger students rushing around each other's rooms fell away. "Her, and that teacher," Julien clarified. "And it is definitely _you_ she wants."

The blonde boy was in the corridor again, this time accompanied by only one girl. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It wasn't even one of the girls from yesterday, but he had her pressed up against the wall between two doors – neither of which were his – and had his tongue half in her mouth, and half lolling grotesquely in the space between their mouths. He wasn't sure how, but she seemed to be enjoying it. Julien raised an eyebrow in distaste.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock said loudly. "There have _got_ to be better places."

The couple broke apart, a faint pink tinge in the boy's cheeks. "Maybe I like doing it here, Holmes."

He smiled tightly. "Yes, I'm sure you do, considering you're only doing it to make someone else jealous. Interesting – who could you be trying to impress in the _boys'_ corridor?"

The blonde's fists clenched, and he made to take a step towards Sherlock, but his girlfriend reached up to his face, pouting sloppily. "What did he mean, you're only doing it to make someone else jealous?" she asked, her voice much too high and needy. The boy gave Sherlock a positively murderous glare. "Sebastian?"

He returned it with as bright a grin as he could muster, and he and Julien kept walking. "Brainless?" Julien ventured once they were out of earshot.

Sherlock smirked. "Probably not, if he ever actually tried. Too much of an ego."

"Homosexual?"

"Probably." Sherlock unlocked his door and let the other boy in. "Why, are you interested?"

Julien flashed him a flirtatious grin. "Possibly. I like the smart ones. Are you jealous?"

"Should I be?" He closed the door behind him and stood awkwardly. What were they supposed to do now? Having got this far, were they going to just strip and…

The dark-haired boy stepped closer. "Perhaps." Sherlock tried to mimic his confident posture, act as though he wasn't completely out of his depth here. Weren't they supposed to be on an equal footing here? Neither of them had any experience. Julien didn't _really_ know any more than him.

To prove it, he stepped forwards, gripped the side of the French boy's jaw in one hand, and pressed their lips together.

He wasn't sure it was supposed to be this awkward, but now it was evident neither of them really knew what they were doing he felt better. Julien brought one hand up to his face, mirroring Sherlock's touch and cupping his jaw to draw their faces closer, and slid the other around his waist to clutch at the back of his shirt. Sherlock jumped at the graze of carefully-trimmed fingernails on the small of his back. Julien's thin lips moved against his, parting and pressing harder as they came back together, his arms tightening, drawing Sherlock closer.

It felt strange, but he supposed it wasn't unpleasant. He'd heard that this kind of kissing was more about sentiment anyway, and since the two of them were skipping that portion of the program, he went right ahead and touched his tongue to the other boy's lips.

There were the fingernails on the dip of his back again, and he hadn't expected that to feel nice, but it did; and suddenly Julien's mouth was open and his tongue was inside it and this couldn't be hygienic, it really _couldn't_, but the more he moved the muscle around the other boy's mouth the harder the fingernails dug into his back, so he didn't stop.

Then Julien caught Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth and _bit_, and something jolted through his body like an electrical current, and before he had time to realise what he was doing he'd made some kind of noise and surged forward with his body, dropping Julien's face and clutching his torso with both hands instead.

Eventually he remembered that he had to breathe, and took his mouth away. He swallowed; he could still taste the other boy on his tongue, the sharpness of the mayonnaise in his sandwich and some sort of cinnamon-tasting sweet he'd been sucking on in Biology. Julien's lips were red and swollen, and Sherlock found himself wanting to kiss them again.

"Your verdict?" Julien asked, sliding his hand from Sherlock's jaw to the collar of his shirt.

Sherlock thought about it. "I think further experimentation is required."


	7. First Interlude

_Heathrow Airport, London, 2005_

"I wish you didn't have to go."

John looked up at his boyfriend of six months, wishing that he could feel in any way sorry about leaving him behind. Timothy was lovely, but he wasn't quite sure how they had managed to last six months. There had never been a huge amount of _passion_ in their relationship. It was lovely and domestic and he _loved_ coming home to the mop of unruly dark curls and cuddles in the evening, but it wasn't _exciting_.

He knew they wouldn't last this. "It'll be fine, Timmy. I'll Skype you when we get to base."

Timmy's blue eyes contracted sadly. "I'll miss you."

"Yeah, I'll miss you too." _But not as much as I should._ He leant forwards for a chaste kiss, which the younger man's thin lips expanded into something a little more intimate, if not heated.

"Oi, lovebirds!"

They broke apart at the sound of Bill's obnoxious voice, but Timmy's thin fingers clutched onto John's jacket to keep him close. The redhead stood by the departure gate, his arm around his wife, grinning as she held onto him as though he were going away for a simple holiday. John couldn't help but smile. "It's time."

John looked back at his boyfriend and smiled cheerfully. "Keep your computer on."

The younger man bit his lower lip, briefly reminding John why he'd fallen for him in the first place – he was vulnerable, adorable, friendly, _attachable._ "Goodbye, John."

"I wish you wouldn't say it like I'm never coming back," he half-joked. Timmy crushed him in a hug. "I'll only be a year or two. It'll go faster than any of us know."

Bill cleared his throat again, always glaringly loud. "It'll be longer than that if we miss the plane," he said wryly. John rolled his eyes. "See you, Timmy."

"Bye, Bill. Stay safe."

The redhead shrugged cheerfully. "Safe is boring." He turned away for one last kiss with his wife, and then John stepped away from Timothy for the last time, waving goodbye as they stepped through the departure gates. Neither of them said 'I love you'. Mostly because neither of them really did.

Bill shook his head in amusement. "You have the most specific typology in men that I have ever seen," he commented dryly. John raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, flipping a smile at the woman across the counter as she scanned his passport.

The redhead handed his own passport to a woman behind him. "I've seen you date women from all over the board, but every man I ever see you with is tall and thin and pale with lots of dark, curly hair." John thinks back to all the boyfriends – and there haven't been _that_ many – he's introduced to Bill. _Timothy, Josh, Benjamin_. Josh had been shorter than John, but even so, he was right; they'd all had unruly dark curls falling across their thin, pale faces. He'd never noticed before – it was something that just sort of happened like that. "One almost starts to think that you're trying to replace a long-lost love with those features. That there was just _one man_, once, and you're only attracted to all these others because of him," Bill speculated whimsically.

John shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied, as though the very idea had never occurred to him before. "Maybe my genes are just programmed to like tall, thin, pale men with dark curls."

And yet – there was the idea, sometimes, when he woke up beside his boyfriend that something about their face was _wrong_ somehow, like he'd been comparing them to some unknown perfection and they didn't quite match up; or there would be the memory, the flash of a barely-remembered face with dark curls and prominent cheekbones and eyes so spectacular he'd never seen anything like them since.

Bill laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Whatever you say, lover-boy," he replied. "Maybe the army can change your taste, anyway. Lots of muscly, tanned men to ogle around here." He held his ground as John shoved him in mock-offense. "No offense meant, of course – I'm guessing you weren't expecting Timmy back there to last long-distance?"

John shook his head slowly, turning back to smile at the man from behind the glass that separated them. He was standing with Bill's wife, his hand on her shoulder as she struggled to hold back her emotions. John couldn't imagine what it would be like, leaving behind someone he actually _loved_ with every fibre of his being and knowing that there was a good chance he'd never come back.

"I'm so jealous of you," he voiced eventually. "You always knew who you wanted. There's only ever been one person and you two have loved each other for the better part of your lives."

The woman handed him back his passport and gestured to the final gate. "Yep. I'm the luckiest guy in the world. But don't worry, John, you'll find someone. Plenty of time, and all that."

John half-heartedly agreed, smiling at Hannah as she raised her hand in a final farewell. Maybe, one day, he'd find someone.

They weren't the only ones in army uniform on the plane; John nodded sharply at four men and a woman towards the back of the deck, one of the men already decorated. The aisle seat beside them was empty, but John let Bill take the window-seat. He was far more confident in his own attention span than his best friend's, and when the time came that he got mind-blowingly bored, it would be better if he weren't sitting next to a stranger.

"Let's think back, shall we?" Bill voiced as they eased themselves into the seats.

John frowned, not following. "To what?"

"To this Mystery Man. It's a puzzle, my mind's on it now."

Bill rested his chin on his hand theatrically and narrowed his eyes. John sighed. "Bill. Give it a rest."

"So. You found you were bisexual in our last year of high-school. Who did we – oh, my God. _Jim_. That Irish kid who was new that year, and you took him under your wing – was it _him _who –"

John swatted Bill's accusatory hand away. "_No!_ Nothing like that ever happened between Jim and I. I felt sorry for him, and then we just sort of… but it was _never_ like that. Don't be ridiculous."

The redhead frowned further. "Good, because he was a bit… I wonder what happened to him."

"He was in the paper the other day, didn't you see?" John mused. "I didn't read the article, I just saw his face. Some math scholarship or something. Not surprising, remember how clever he was?"

Bill nodded slowly. "How could I forget? So, not Jim then. It was around the time Carl Powers died, wasn't it? Did you meet someone at the funeral?"

"Give up, Bill. You know I didn't go to Carl's funeral."

"Excuse me," a deep, honeyed voice interrupted. John looked up to see a tanned blond in army uniform leaning comfortably against the back of the seat in front of him. "This seat's free, isn't it? 15C?"

His teeth were alarmingly white – John would have assumed he was American if he didn't speak with a strong Northern accent. "Yeah, sorry," he replied, kicking his bag away from the seat's footroom. "First posting?"

The blond smiled, dropping into the seat heavily. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah – I'm John. This is Bill." He held out a hand, which the blond took, still grinning, and shook heartily.

"Kieran. Pleased to meet you."

John definitely wasn't imagining the little flirty gleam in his bright green eyes or the way the other man's large, warm hands stayed clutching his for a moment longer than necessary. Judging from the nudge of the elbow that Bill gave him, the redhead hadn't missed it either. John hesitated for a moment before letting himself grin back.

Yeah. One day he'd find somebody.


	8. Chapter 6

_Islington High School, 1992_

Bradley and Matt looked up and grinned as John plonked down next to them, looking unenthusiastically at his tray-ful of some rather ambiguous-looking curry. "I'd almost forgotten about school dinners," he said sadly.

Matt snorted, stabbing violently at his rice. "Lucky you," he muttered. Bradley threw a bit of roll at him.

"So, John, good holiday?"

John gave the rest of the hall a quick scan; Jim's face was conspicuous only in its absence. "Yeah, all right, thanks. Spent most of it at boot camp."

Both boys winced in sympathy; Matt was so skinny John often wondered how he got up in the morning without snapping his back, and Bradley seemed to have some sort of terminal allergy to physical exertion. Boot camp was probably both of their worst nightmares. John just shrugged. "You guys?"

"Meh. The usual. Almost hospitalised my brother, got bored to the point of considering suicide and sunburned so badly I have a completely fresh coat of skin. Nothing new."

Bradley rolled his eyes. "You're going to get cancer. I _told _you to put sunblock on that day." John chuckled. He knew Matt was exaggerating, on all counts. "And you _didn't –"_

"Excuse me," a cool but slightly timid Irish lilt broke in. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

John looked up, surprised; sure enough, Jim was carrying a tray with the barest blob of curry and rice on his plate and hovering at Bradley's elbow awkwardly. He smiled at John. "Of course – guys, this is Jim. Jim, this is Bradley and Matt." They both waved him lazy hellos and hardly paid him any further notice as he sat down. John grinned at him. "How was your afternoon?" he asked.

Jim's mouth quirked in an odd kind of smile. "Fine, I suppose. It'll be more interesting when they've sorted out my math classes, but Law and Politics is good. They didn't offer that in Dublin."

"Ireland, of course," Matt interrupted. "Sorry. I was trying to place your accent." Jim smiled shallowly at him. "So you're going to be a lawyer, then?"

The younger boy shrugged diplomatically, spinning his fork idly between his fingers before delicately picking at his food. John grimaced at the first bite of his own curry; he shouldn't have let himself get accustomed to his mother's cooking in the week between boot camp and school. He couldn't even _identify_ what this tasted like.

A tray banged loudly down onto the bench beside him, splattering bits of rice and sauce across the table. A drop landed on the sleeve of Jim's navy shirt; the Irishman sent a sharp look in the newcomer's direction before wiping at it with a napkin.

"I am going to die."

John sighed. "Jesus, Bill. You know, we'd acknowledge your arrival _without_ the flying food and the suicide note."

Bill grinned around at everybody as he threw himself dramatically at his seat, very nearly missing. He took one bite of the curry before making a face and pushing it away. "That's disgusting. How was Chemistry?"

Jim, too, seemed to have given up on his dinner. "Is it always this bad?" he asked gingerly. John shrugged.

"No, not really. It's never _incredible_, but this is particularly bad. I have crisps and stuff upstairs, I think supper might be in order."

The younger boy smiled thinly as the rest of the table murmured acquiescence. "We'll pool our resources," Bradley agreed, finally giving up on his own food. "I have instant noodles and we could make some jell-o as dessert."

"I have coffee," Bill interjected cheerfully.

John stared at him until he shrank back slightly in his seat. "I think I'll be confiscating that," he said firmly. The redhead mock-deflated.

"Yes, General Watson."

Grinning, John nodded in a drill-sergeant kind of way. Everyone laughed; as much as the two of them looked like they were kidding, even Jim could probably tell that when they headed upstairs, Bill would be handing over the packet of instant coffee and John would not be giving it back.

"So, Jim, you're what, fifth-form? Did you know John before you came to Islington?"

Jim turned slowly to look at Matt, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Yes, I'm fifth-form," he replied pleasantly. "I had a… run in with someone named Powers this morning, and that's how I met John."

"Ah." The others nodded as if this explained everything. John wondered if he should be offended; they treated it like it was an eccentricity or a fault, the way he didn't like it when Carl bullied people.

The Irish boy continued, turning away again. "Actually I don't know anyone here."

Bradley clapped him on the back so hard his face almost hit the table. "You know us," he said cheerfully. John sent him a silent _thank you._ He'd known that his friends would accept Jim, but it made it so much easier if they did so without making even a barely-perceptible fuss.

"Oh, yeah," John remembered suddenly. "I talked to Carl earlier. You seem to have gotten on his nerves more than people usually manage in their first day. What did you say to him?"

Jim shrugged innocently. "Maybe it's because I wasn't scared of him? I don't know. I didn't start it or anything. He's only like that because of his father, anyway."

Matt looked up at this. "What? What's wrong with his father?"

"Nothing," Jim replied easily. "He just beats him. You can tell by the way he walks. And his sleeve rode up when he grabbed me, he had a burn from a cigarette butt on his elbow. Monkey see, monkey do."

He looked up slowly to find that everyone was staring at him. "That's… how come we never noticed that?" Matt asked, looking at John, who shrugged. Carl walked with a bit of a swagger that could suggest physical tenderness, sure, but John had always just put it down to arrogance.

Actually, he'd never bothered to find out much of anything about Carl. One tends not to care so much about the person who's trying to force your head through the bannisters on the stair-rail. "That's still no excuse. I mean, my dad isn't a basket of roses, but I don't push people around."

"Except Carl," Jim noted, quickly busying himself with his hand in his messenger-bag. John stared. "But it's justified if _they _start it, isn't it?"

John watched the others nod and wondered if he wanted to disagree. He'd heard of the situation before, assuming that someone was 'bad' and then finding out it wasn't entirely their fault. Bill had said something about it being discovered in the justice system that most violent people had troubled childhoods, or something. "I guess, if someone like Carl comes along and tries to knock me unconscious after dinner one night, I'm not going to stop and ask him if his father hits him, I'm going to turn around and punch _his_ lights out instead."

Jim looked away. "Oh. That's what you did, isn't it? You said something about his father, that's why he doesn't like you." The corner of the Irish boy's thin, dark lips twitched upwards gently.

Bill clapped him on the back. "You really got him. You did that thing again, didn't you, that thing where you know things other people don't by looking at weird stuff? You really freaked him out, well done."

"Don't encourage him," John chided, but he was grinning. He had to agree; Carl had seemed thoroughly thrown-off by Jim. The question was, would that make him back off or hound the younger boy harder?

Matt pushed his chair out from the table abruptly. "Shall we get going, then, and we can nab the TV room? I got _The Silence of the Lambs _on video in the holidays, we should put it on before the girls grab the room and start watching that new Meg Ryan film."

Bill and Bradley made a face. In Bradley's case, this meant a slight grimace of distaste for the brand of 'chick-flick'; in Bill's, it meant sticking his tongue out further than John would have considered medically possible and mock-vomiting over the side of the table with such enthusiasm John started to wonder just how _many_ of these films he'd spent the holidays watching. Then he caught Hannah's eye from the table across the room and rolled his eyes at her. She blushed and looked away hurriedly as though trying to pretend she hadn't been watching the redhead.

John looked over at Jim, who'd seen it too – he was starting to think it was impossible to hide anything from him – and chuckled. "Yeah. Right. Well, you get the movie then, and Brad and I'll get the food, and we'll meet in the TV room in five?"

When everyone cleared out their trays and started out towards the dorm, John found Jim hanging back slightly. "I don't have anything to contribute or anything," he said, shrugging. He sounded slightly hesitant, but not ashamed, just a sort of calm resignation.

He shrugged in reply. "Doesn't matter – Bill doesn't either. You don't have to come if you don't want to, Jim, but the offer's there if you want company."

The younger boy hesitated for a moment. John had thought perhaps Jim would feel too uncomfortable – he didn't seem like much of a social being. But after a moment of deliberation, he grinned. "All right. Thanks."

"Hey, actually, you know what you… no, don't worry. I was going to suggest you grab a loaf of bread from the toast-bucket, but the kitchen staff get cranky and I don't want to get you in trouble on your first day. Don't worry about it. You can help me carry the crisps, come on."

To his surprise, though, Jim grinned. "No, I can do that. I rather fancy crisp sandwiches. What floor is the TV room on? I'll meet you there."

John blinked, surprised, and gave Jim directions to the television room usually reserved for the seventh-formers. Each form had their own study room, kitchenette and television room, but nobody worried about using each other's facilities; no-one was only friends with their own form.

He was even more surprised when Jim turned up in the TV room ten minutes later with a loaf of white bread and a bowl of margarine. Bill greeted him with a hearty cheer of "Christ, Jim, we'll keep you around – what did you, work out one of the staff's secrets and threaten to tell the principal?"

Jim shrugged self-deprecatingly. "No. I just waited until they weren't looking." John noticed with slight worry the way that Bill was now looking at the younger boy with a new kind of respect. "They'll never notice I took either of them unless we don't return the bowl for the marge, so I'll take that back after the film."

"You can't," Bradley put in, fiddling with the remote for the television. "They lock the kitchens at eight."

The Irish boy grinned. "Not a problem."

Bill actually stood up, although that may have been more to do with the noodles in his hand. "What, you can pick locks, too? Jesus, you'd be handy on the criminal scene, wouldn't you – is _that_ why you're taking Law and Politics?"

John rolled his eyes. Jim just smiled diplomatically. "You have to learn to pick locks when your family won't feed you."

That shut everyone up pretty quickly.

"All right," Bill boomed after he'd retrieved his noodles from the microwave and positioned himself on the settee ready to watch. "I'm ready, let's go." The others just laughed at him, still fiddling with popcorn and crisps. "Jim, come sit."

John was pleased to see a slight flattered expression on the young Irishman's face as he sat next to Bill. He wondered if it was too patronising to feel sorry for Jim, to 'take him under his wing' and involve him so deeply in his own group of friends. But he was so incredibly intelligent and interesting, and it wasn't as though John was _forcing_ him to socialise with the rest of them.

He settled down on the other settee beside Bradley, watching Jim butter a slice of bread to make a crisp sandwich. He supposed they'd have to see how it went.


	9. Chapter 7

_Cuxton Grammar School, Knightsbridge, 1992_

_"Your verdict?" Julien asked, sliding his hand from Sherlock's jaw to the collar of his shirt._

_Sherlock thought about it. "I think further experimentation is required."_

Julien smirked and pulled him closer again, their lips meeting with more force this time. Sherlock could feel his cock reacting to each swipe of the French boy's lips, each graze of his fingernails through the fabric of his shirt – the fingernails especially, he wasn't sure why – and when he started lazily rocking his lower half forwards so that their groins brushed together and he could feel that the other boy was having the same reaction, his body flushed almost painfully hot. He'd had erections before, of course; it seemed impossible to pass through the stages of being a teenage boy without them occurring at inappropriate moments. But this was… different. Knowing that it was caused by someone who _meant_ to make him feel like this, and knowing that his efforts on them were also working… it was intoxicating.

"Clothes," he said against the sculpted lips when they next broke apart.

Julien smiled at him again, his fingers slipping from Sherlock's neck along the collar of his shirt. "Impatient, aren't you?" he said, his voice light and slightly breathless with anticipation

Sherlock managed a smirk as he deftly unlooped the other boy's tie. "Always." He'd never seen the point of patience, of waiting for other people to take their sweet time about doing things. Most of the time they were just too stupid to realise he was in a hurry anyway. Mycroft had once suggested he slow down and appreciated some of the finer things in life, and he'd left the remains of a dissected frog in his bed in retaliation.

The other boy's fingers were deft and sure, sliding down to the buttons on his shirt and gently picking them undone. Julien seemed to have picked up on his reaction to the use of fingernails; Sherlock could feel him smirking against his lips every time his fingers slipped and his intricate nails scraped unexpectedly against skin.

While Sherlock was endeavouring to pull off Julien's clothes as fast as possible, his own clothes were being removed tantalisingly slowly, the gentle shift of fabric that meant Julien had undone a further button accompanied by the stroke of long fingers against his gradually exposed chest. He pushed the white dress shirt off his new friend's bony shoulders at the same time Julien flicked the last button on his own shirt open and lifted his fingers to scrape nails gently across his nipples.

Sherlock gasped and broke the kiss. Julien smirked at him. "That… that's…" he became suddenly more aware that his trousers were stretched tight across his throbbing groin; he'd never even considered that other places besides _down there _could elicit that kind of feeling. Now he wanted to map all of them – were they the same for everybody? Could he lie Julien down on the bed and touch him everywhere until he found each and every place that would make him shift and gasp, and then correspondingly expect to find the same reactions in his own body?

He brought his hands up to run the pads of his fingers across the planes of the French boy's shoulders, to feel the intersection and intertwining of bone and joint and sinew and let his hands follow the slope down his back to where the planes of his shoulder-blades met, down the bottom line of his ribcage and back up until his palms enclosed the twin hillocks of pectoral muscle, the heels of his hands pressing softly against the other boy's nipples. Julien shivered.

He had a sudden image of the time he'd been tracing the arc of Jack the Ripper and he'd settled for a chalk sketch of the outline of a human body on the floor, studying it with eyes and fingers and photographs, only this time it was a real body, _Julien's_ body underneath him, and every time he touched it it would move with him, a tiny involuntary shudder like this – he could touch it with his lips, his tongue, more sensitive than the calloused pads of his fingertips.

His eyes lifted to meet the sparkling green ones opposite him again. Julien was smiling, his hands pressed flat against Sherlock's ribcage, measuring the hammering of his heart.

They could catalogue this together, he thought; how fast their heart would play at different stages, where the pulse was most evident and how long it took for it to slow back to normal again. On a whim, he reached back to Julien's shoulder blades again, supporting his body as he leaned in and pressed his tongue to the pulse-point behind the other boy's ear. Here, it was impossible for the calm and collected façade to hold, when he could feel against the nerve-endings in his tongue the heartbeat that was anything but unflappable, taste the tang of perspiration. He wanted to make him show this _everywhere_.

Sherlock tried to think like he normally did, but it was difficult. He'd have to re-train himself the longer they did this to keep his normal mental function intact. _Was the introduction of his fingernails against my skin an involuntary reaction, or did he do it on purpose because he knew _he_ liked it?_ To test the theory, Sherlock shifted his tongue further down the other boy's neck, widening his mouth, licking and sucking at the skin before suddenly biting down firmly.

A low, helpless noise bubbled out of Julien's throat and his hands shifted from Sherlock's chest round to his back, clutching him closer. Sherlock felt the thrill of success and sucked harder at the same point, but Julien grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away.

"It will stain the skin," he explained, his own fingers tracing idle circles around Sherlock's almost non-existent pectoral muscles. "People will see."

Sherlock didn't particularly care if people saw; any questions they had about what was happening in _his_ life would quickly be rebutted with answers as to what was going on in theirs. But he understood Julien's trepidation. He was new here, and his father's reputation could likely only protect him so far.

He started when Julien's fingers left his chest and turned to claws; his green eyes were bright with amusement as the French boy scraped red lines into his pale stomach in a 'v' shape down to the button on his school trousers. Sherlock swallowed.

Julien looked up at him, his fingers resting heavily on the belt-line of Sherlock's trousers. "Are you certain?" he asked, a teasing smile playing with the corners of his mouth that would have made Sherlock say 'yes' even if he was _not_ absolutely sure that he would throttle the boy if he stopped now.

"Are you?" he asked, out of common courtesy. Julien just smirked and touched their lips together again, his tongue hot and invading, before he ducked his head to watch as his fingers quickly dismantled the button and zipper on the grey trousers.

Sherlock let out a breath into Julien's dark hair as his cock freed itself from his trousers. He didn't think he'd _ever_ been quite that hard while still fully dressed. The other boy looked up, customary smirk back in place; Sherlock wanted to do something to get rid of it, but just as he was about to move there were fingers on his cock.

Instead, he made an involuntary noise and thrust his hips helplessly into Julien's hand. It was a completely different feeling with only his pants between his skin and the French boy's careful fingers; Julien's hand was colder than his groin, but by this point he was having trouble imagining _anything_ that could be hotter than he felt. He usually liked to keep his room warm and dense because he found it easier to think that way, but now it was almost as if his sweat was boiling on the surface of his skin.

Julien bent his head further to lick at Sherlock's collarbone, then carefully sank to his knees until his face was level with Sherlock's crotch, his cold fingers still dancing over the cotton of his pants. Sherlock tried to slow his breathing down, but gave it up as a bad job when he started to feel lightheaded.

The other boy reached up and gently tugged on the elastic waistband of his pants, sliding them down his thighs and leaving them puddled around his ankles before turning his head back to Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock bit his lip. He wasn't sure if he ought to be self-conscious or not; he wasn't usually, but this was considerably more personal than the things he was usually judged on. He didn't have much to judge against, but he thought he was fairly average-sized, and he'd heard that was a point of pride among men. His hands fluttered uselessly at his side; what was he supposed to do with them?

Julien looked up at him, smug smile back in place. He just blinked back, the corner of his own mouth twitching upwards.

At the first touch of the other boy's tongue to the underside of his shaft his entire body tensed as he tried not to jump and poke Julien in the eye with himself. It didn't feel like anything he could possibly have done to himself, warm and damp and a completely different kind of pressure than his fingers. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists with the effort to keep his hips still as Julien's tongue darted out again, fidgeting helplessly; as sensations started to pulse through his body his knees felt trembly and threatened to give way.

"Wait," he said suddenly. Julien stopped licking up the side of his penis and sat back on his heels. "I can't… I'll fall over."

The other boy smiled, casting a look around the room. "Sit down. Here – on the bed, perhaps."

Julien stood up as Sherlock moved to sit down on the bed, quickly and unceremoniously shucking his trousers before leaning over him in only a neatly-fitting pair of black cotton pants tented around his erection. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. "Better?" the boy asked, his voice low and silky-smooth against his ear, his fringe tickling Sherlock's shoulder.

"Much."

He grinned as Julien got to his knees again, sitting on his heels and sliding his cool fingers up from Sherlock's knees to his thighs before lowering his head again.

This time he took the head into his mouth, surrounding him in a hot, wet cocoon; Sherlock gasped, his hands shooting behind him to hold his weight as his hips jerked. Julien's hands settled on his hip-bones, pressing gently to hold him back as he slid his mouth further down his cock. Sherlock closed his eyes to focus on the sensation; it was almost _comforting_, something warm enclosing him and exerting a gentle pressure. He wondered what it felt like on Julien's end, wondered how he could still do that with his tongue when he had so much in his mouth; Sherlock could see the other boy's jaw stretching and wondered if it hurt.

He almost wanted it to be over quickly so that he could push Julien down and try it himself, but at the same time he'd _never_ felt anything quite this good and he didn't want it to end any sooner than it had to. He lifted a hand to push his hair back from where sweat was sticking it to his forehead; he wondered whether he should have opened the window before they started, and resolved to keep the room cooler from now on; a slight breeze would make the warmth of Julien's mouth – and the steady blooming of heat in his stomach and abdomen – more pronounced, more singular. An image of the two of them doing this outdoors popped into his head, so strong he could almost feel the bark of the tree in the grounds outside at his back.

Sherlock shuddered in arousal at the image, a soft moan escaping his lips. Julien's green eyes snapped up to his, and the boy's lips twitched into what might have been a smile had his mouth been empty. He could feel the muscles in his hips twitching with the involuntary thrusts he was trying to hold back as Julien's mouth kept slowly and gently advancing down his length. He bit his lips to stifle another moan as one of the other boy's hands left his hip and travelled down his own torso to disappear under the waistband of his pants.

Suddenly Julien's face contorted into a grimace and Sherlock felt his tongue attempt to lift in protest; the boy gagged slightly and backed off. Sherlock wondered if he should apologise, but Julien didn't show any signs of stopping, sucking harder on the tip and bringing his hand out of his trousers to wrap around the part that his mouth didn't reach. Knowing exactly what that hand had just been touching made the beginnings of orgasm spark in his stomach; he choked back another moan, suddenly mindful of the people in the room beside his, and moved his own hand to the French boy's hair, leaning over him as his muscles tensed and clenched, the pleasure building and quivering with every flutter of Julien's tongue.

He realised he should warn the other boy, give him a chance to back off even though he was sure Julien wouldn't. This was all about the experiment, after all. "I'm… _ah!_ I…" And then he was there, so suddenly it was almost unexpected, over the edge and down, and Julien's hand was stroking up his thigh even as he sucked and licked the way through Sherlock's orgasm.

When he came down, he sat up shakily to see the other boy spitting into his rubbish bin. He'd expected something like that; he couldn't imagine it would taste very nice. Julien looked up at him, but he was smiling. "Unusual," the boy criticised slowly. "Bitter."

Sherlock grinned. "But not nice enough to swallow."

"Perhaps you should try it for yourself," Julien suggested, shrugging. Sherlock's grin intensified.

"Oh, I intend to."

Julien lifted an amused eyebrow; Sherlock quickly knocked the expression off his face by grabbing his arm and yanking him upright before tackling him and pushing him onto the bed.

The French boy giggled, his legs swinging under Sherlock's, hands tightening in his unruly curls as his head hit the pillow. Sherlock kissed him clumsily before he could say anything, moving his legs so he was straddling him and pressing his lips to his Adam's apple and the dip in his collarbone, his tongue and teeth making contact at odd intervals. Julien laughed. "I thought most people were supposed to slow down after orgasm," he commented idly.

He chuckled. "I'm not most people." Sherlock took Julien's left nipple between his lips and sucked. The boy gasped and arched his back, so Sherlock flicked his tongue over the tip and replaced his lips with teeth. Julien yelped.

"Ssh," Sherlock reminded him, lifting a finger to his lips before moving his mouth downward, biting firmly at the lines of muscles across Julien's stomach before hooking his fingers either side of the damp spot on the front of the other boy's black cotton pants. "Lift," he commanded. Obediently, the boy pushed his hips off the bed to allow Sherlock to slide the pants down his thighs and toss them carelessly over his shoulder.

Julien was bigger than he was; longer and ever-so-slightly thicker. Sherlock swallowed, his eyes flickering up to the French boy's face. Julien's eyes were closed, his long eyelashes flickering with every exhale of Sherlock's that flickered hotly over his cock, his head thrown back to expose his long neck. Sherlock smirked at the abandon he was displaying.

He licked his lips obviously when Julien opened his eyes, stilling the resulting shudder with palms pressed into prominent hipbones, and plunged straight in, taking as much of Julien's member into his mouth as he comfortably could in one go and pressing his hand to the other boy's mouth as he let out a too-loud noise of surprised pleasure. Julien chuckled against his hand when he realised what he'd done, his chest heaving with heavy pants as Sherlock slowly attempted to work his way down further. His jaw was stretched almost impossibly tight and he was sure it would hurt in the morning, but it was a pleasant sort of stretch, and the weight of the organ against his tongue was not unpleasant either. Julien's hands inserted themselves in his hair again and he found he didn't mind.

He hit the point where, he suspected, the other boy had gagged and then backed off; his throat muscles contracted in protest, so he inched off enough for them to settle down before taking a deep breath, opening his throat as wide as it would go, and advancing again.

He couldn't breathe, and flinched as the head hit the back of his throat and his gag reflex flared briefly before he managed to control himself; he brought one hand up to the wrinkled, drawn-up skin of Julien's balls, holding his breath as the boy whimpered and trembled underneath him. Saliva pooled uncomfortably in the back of his throat, so he swallowed.

Julien made a choked noise, his mouth opening desperately under Sherlock's warning hand. "I – Sherlock – _mon dieu, Sherlock!"_ He started to move away, but then the French boy's hips were jerking up, forcing his lips down further over Julien's cock, and hot bitter liquid was shooting so far down his throat he had no choice but to swallow it, to keep snatching quick breaths when he could and hold on until it was over.

It felt like forever before Julien's hips stilled and his hands fell away from Sherlock's hair, releasing him. He pulled off and swallowed a few times, grimacing at the burn in his throat. He understood what Julien had meant; it wasn't an _unpleasant_ taste exactly, but he probably wouldn't have swallowed it if he'd been given a choice. He turned to fish in his schoolbag for his waterbottle; it definitely wasn't a taste he wanted in his mouth long-term.

The French boy sat up, still panting as though he'd just sprinted up the six flights of stairs from the dining-hall. "I apologise," he said finally, watching with concerned eyes as Sherlock swilled water around his mouth. "I was not expecting it to be so… overwhelming."

Sherlock shook his head. "It was my fault," he deferred. "I shouldn't have gone so deep without knowing what it would be like." Julien chuckled lightly and accepted the waterbottle when Sherlock held it out to him.

"I think perhaps we simply need practice," he said cheerfully.


	10. Chapter 8

_Islington High School, 1992_

"What's the date?" John asked, his pen poised over the top right corner of the grid-book.

Bill sighed dramatically. "What day of the week is it? What time of year? How long have we been stuck here?" He blew his fringe out of his eyes in a long-suffering manner. "I feel like a prisoner of war."

"It's the twenty-second," Jim supplied more helpfully, not looking up from the blackboard.

John grinned. "Thanks, Jim."

The redhead opened his mouth to say something indignant at his companions' complete ignorance of his contribution, but McAuliffe looked up and beat him to it. "Murray! Watson!"

"Terry!" Bill snapped back in the same tone of voice. A few people at the back of the room tittered.

McAuliffe narrowed his eyes piggishly. "What nonsense are you corrupting our boy genius with now?" he asked suspiciously. John noticed Jim make an involuntary sort of twitch beside him and wondered if he had a problem with the nickname.

"I was just asking the date, sir," John told him innocently. He kept the facial expression to match as the teacher turned dull eyes on him.

"It's the twenty-second," the squat man said waspishly, turning back to the board. Jim snorted quietly.

Bill, typically, waited a grand total of five seconds after the teacher's back was turned before he started talking again. "Hey, John," he said, with a tone of voice that suggested he was about to say something monumentally hilarious. "Didn't your girlfriend get back today?"

John looked at him; usually when people teased him about such things he had a vague idea of whom they were referring to. "My what?" he was forced to ask.

"Sally Donovan's back from the Bahamas today, remember?"

He blinked wildly for a few seconds before he remembered why that was significant. "Oh, right. I'll have to remember to photocopy my notes after Bio, then."

Bill smirked. "Have to remember to keep your eye on her, more like. Don't show her your back."

John rolled his eyes. "Shut up. She's not that bad. It's not like she's going to jump me the second I turn around."

"Are we talking about the same Sally?" Bill asked, crossing out a line of working as McAuliffe cursed and rubbed it off the blackboard. "Curly hair, cocky and over-confident? John, I've seen that predatory look she gives you. You want to watch out."

The redhead looked so deadly serious John couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, all right, I'm watching out," he said, flapping a hand in his friend's direction.

Unfortunately, McAuliffe chose that moment to look around and caught them like that, Bill geared up for another round of convincing and John waving him off. "Murray! If you cannot leave Mr Watson and his talented associate to their work, I will be forced to remove you from the classroom."

Bill shut up for the rest of the lesson.

"Hey," John cornered Jim as they packed their bags after class. "It doesn't bother you, does it, the way McAuliffe keeps calling you nicknames because you're two grades ahead? You know he does it because he's impressed. If you don't like it you can just tell him to stop. Or I could, if you don't want –"

"Watson," the small Irish boy snapped, swinging his backpack over his shoulder, "I don't need you to baby me. I can handle high-school on my own."

And he marched out of the classroom, banging the door shut behind him. Nonplussed, John looked at Bill, who was shaking his head ruefully. "You extend the hand of friendship to these people, and then they turn around and bite you in the arse."

John shook his head. "That… I think there's something wrong. That didn't seem like him." The Jim they'd got to know over the past three weeks had always been scrupulously polite despite his wry sense of humour and the habit he seemed to have of occasionally letting slip something he'd noticed about someone that they'd been trying to cover up. John was fascinated by the way he noticed _everything._ That little outburst had to be the result of something else.

"Don't, John. Don't try and figure out what's wrong. Just let him be for a bit, he obviously wants you to back off him a little," Bill interrupted his thoughts. "You _have_ kind of been babying him."

"I just…" John sighed. "All right. Fine. I'm going to be late for Bio."

* * *

><p>The Biology laboratory was buzzing with noise when he got there; the teacher hadn't arrived yet and one side of the classroom was gathered around Sally Donovan, browner than ever, beaming and showing off her new shoulder-bag and holiday photos. John slid into a seat beside Bradley, who was watching them with a vaguely interested look on his face. The blond looked over at him as he sat down. "Hey, John. Sally talked to you yet?"<p>

"No," John replied, pulling a ringbinder out of his bag. "Why, should she have?"

Bradley shrugged. "I just thought she might have made an effort to find you after she got back. Especially since you were taking notes for her, so she's got an excuse. Not that people like her think they _need_ an excuse." John chuckled.

"I'd forgotten she was back today, actually. I'll have to photocopy my notes after class." The blond made a non-committal noise and started doodling on his own ringbinder; the idle scrawl quickly became a detailed biro sketch of the pot-plant by the window. John watched it develop with mild amazement. "God, everyone's so talented," he mused. "I'm surrounded by geniuses. It's not fair." Bradley frowned up at him, so he gestured at the picture. "Your sketching. Jim's math."

The door banged open and Ms Roper strode through; the noise in the classroom cut off immediately, replaced by the scrapes of a few chairs as the crowd around Sally dispersed. The petite woman looked around the classroom for a moment then grinned suddenly. "Afternoon, class," she said brightly, making her way right up the centre of the room to the whiteboard. "Welcome back, Miss Donovan," she added, picking up the folder from the desk by the board and flicking through it idly. John took a moment to marvel at the complete control Ms Roper had over her class; she was toying with them, not saying anything to keep them quiet and yet silently not allowing them to speak. "You've missed some very important content, but I believe Mr Watson has agreed to copy his notes for you, is that right?"

Sally caught John's eye and beamed, and this time even John could see the predatory gleam in her eyes. He tried to smile back. "Yes, Ms Roper – could I use the science photocopier after class, please?" he asked.

The woman smiled fondly at him. "Of course, I'll leave the office open for you. Now; today we focus our study back to the human side of evolution. You should all have a basic understanding of the process – humans, as everyone knows, are closely related to apes, and from there…"

The lesson passed fairly quickly, but John was exceedingly aware of the fact that Sally didn't appear to be listening to anything Ms Roper was saying. Bradley appeared to be trying very hard to rein in the giggles as he looked from John, studiously bent over his book but unable to stop his cheeks displaying the merest signs of a flush, to Sally, who was casting looks in their direction that were anything but subtle. When Ms Roper finally lobbed her protesting whiteboard marker into the bin on the other side of the classroom – landing it neatly inside amid appreciative whoops from the boys at the back – and signalled the end of class, John hastened rather fast into the office in an attempt to postpone the confrontation.

Photocopiers had always confused him, but this one was so user-unfriendly it had to be Japanese. He stared at it for a good ten minutes before he figured out that the top half of the machine lifted up to reveal the glass of the copier. From there there were only a million buttons that could be the right one.

John sighed. Technology despised him.

After a while he found a promising button labelled 'copy', placed the first page of notes on the glass, pressed it and held his breath.

He was five pages in when he heard the voice behind him. "Hey, John."

"Hey, Sally," John said calmly, turning the page over before he turned to face her. She was leaning in what was evidently supposed to be a casual manner against the doorframe to the office. "So, um… good holiday, then?"

She giggled – John wondered what he'd said that was funny – and shook her hair back gently from her shoulders. "Oh, it was fantastic. Sunny every day, really beautiful. What about your holidays?"

John deemed it safe to turn back to the copier – Bill's insistence that he not turn his back on Sally seeming suddenly less ridiculous – and continue photocopying his notes. "Fine. I went to a boot camp run by the army, got a few bruises and stuff but met some good people…"

"Boot camp," Sally said, her voice suddenly breathy. "John, you're so brave. Will you join the army?"

He fidgeted uncomfortably, wishing the copier would hurry up. "Yeah. They'll pay my fees for med school provided I serve if they need me to. It's really the only way I could become a doctor."

"Oh, John."

John jumped a mile in the air and bumped his hip on the photocopier; Sally's voice was suddenly right behind him, low and sultry. He turned around, panicking slightly. "Sally, what are you doing? You're very close."

The frizzy-haired brunette giggled again, her dark eyes fixed intently on his. "Yeah."

"Sally! You're… there's a… personal space… Sally, please." He turned back quickly to turn the page on the book again; how many more pages were there? Why did he have to take so many notes?

Suddenly there were hands snaking around his waist and hot breath on his ear. "What if I don't want personal space?" she said softly. John tried to stop the impulse – perhaps left over from the camp – to throw an elbow in her face and run for the door.

He took a deep breath. "Sally. Please. I'm really not…"

"Not what?" she asked, and he could see in his mind the pout that was surely forming on her lips. "Not interested? John, I _know_ that's not true…" Then there were lips on his ear, lips and tongue and _teeth_, she was _biting_ his earlobe! Surely this was violating some kind of human rights law. This was sexual assault. No-one would blame him for pushing her, right?

"Sally!"

To John's relief, the door at the other end of the office opened and Sally let go of him. A tall, curvy brunette peered around the door at them, took in John's embarrassed and dishevelled state and Sally's smug look and grinned. "Sorry, was I interrupting?" she said wryly.

He smiled at her. "Not _at all_. Please, come in." Sally sighed as he turned to face her. "Sally. I'm serious, okay? You're lovely, but I'm not interested." On cue, the copier spewed out the last page of notes and he gathered them into a pile. "Here – I hope you can read my writing. I'm glad you had a good holiday."

She stared at him for a moment and he thought she might refuse to leave, wait until the other girl had gone and then try to assault him again; then without a word she took the stack of papers and flounced out of the room.

John let out his breath noisily. "Jesus."

The younger girl laughed lightly. "You all right?" she asked, her voice amused, coming closer. He chuckled darkly.

"Girls," he muttered. "No offence," he added, remembering who he was talking to. She laughed again.

"None taken, that looked like quite the experience. Are you still using the copier?" John reclaimed his notes and stepped away from the machine. "Ooh. That looks complicated," she said, biting her lip as she examined it. "Is it a printer as well?"

John laughed. "I wouldn't have a clue. It could make ice-cream as well for all I know about technology."

The girl chuckled too, putting the large sheet of paper – it looked like a flow-chart of some description – on the glass. "That would explain why Miss Bailey always acts like she's on a sugar-high," she mused. "I'm Sophia," she added as an afterthought.

"John," he returned.

Sophia narrowed her eyes. "Not John Watson, are you?" He looked up in surprise. "I think Miss Bailey has a bit of a crush on you," she explained. "She mentioned your name the other day like you were the science department's darling."

He blinked. "Really? I never got the impression that she liked me. What were you talking about that she brought me up?"

"Oh, the whole class got abysmal results for our last Bio test and she was suggesting we find someone to tutor us." She grinned and adopted Miss Bailey's high, breathy voice. "_Find an intelligent seventh-former – someone like John Watson, he'll have the patience to deal with you snot-rags."_

They laughed. "Patience. I didn't think that was the impression I gave her," he commented. "So you reckon I should start keeping an eye out for sixth-formers who want me to teach them photosynthesis?"

"No. I think the whole class either doesn't care about their grades or would be too terrified to actually go and find you, let alone talk to you, and you can forget being one-on-one tutored by you. Your name's kind of… got around."

Nonplussed, John frowned at the girl. "My name? Why, what did I do?"

She shrugged. "A few people saw you rescue the new kid from Carl Powers. A few other people have their own stories of being rescued." John kept frowning, and so Sophia laughed idly. "Um… if you're… I _could_ use a bit of help with biological validity," she admitted, peering up at him from over the top of her zebra-printed glasses.

He blinked. "What – you really do want me to tutor you, then?" he asked. She smiled shyly.

"If you want to. Don't worry if you don't have time or anything, I get it if you're busy."

John looked at her. She was pretty, sounded intelligent and seemed to share his sense of humour. What could possibly go wrong? "No, I could do that. Tomorrow after dinner in your common room?"

She grinned brightly, gathering the copies of her flow-chart. "It's a date."


	11. Chapter 9

_Cuxton Grammar School, Central London, 1992_

Sherlock was stockpiling newspaper clippings when Julien knocked on his door.

He knew it was Julien; no-one else ever knocked on his door, and it had been almost two days since the last time he had seen the lanky French boy. That, and the pattern of knocks could be interpreted as something by Handel.

"Come in," he said brightly, tucking the clippings into a manila file and slipping it into his desk-drawer.

Julien grinned at him and shut the door. "How has your weekend passed?" he asked cheerfully. Sherlock allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards; the boy's green eyes were sparkling with the sort of look that usually preceded a suggestion – or simply the implementation – of a new experiment.

"Boring," he replied. "They wouldn't let me into that crime-scene. You? Where did you go?"

The French boy shrugged lightly. "A family friend from the Embassy insisted that I share dinner with them."

They waited a moment, staring at each other with anticipatory grins on their faces, before Sherlock got bored and broke the silence. "You're obviously thinking something specific," he said, rolling his eyes, still grinning. "Spit it out, then."

Julien frowned at the phrase, but evidently decided that it was a colloquial he didn't understand and dismissed it. "I visited the shop when I was walking back," he mentioned, bending over the black bag he brought into the room.

Sherlock stared for a moment, trying to remember why this was significant. "_Oh_," he breathed finally. "Did you…"

The boy straightened, a small bottle of clear, gelatinous fluid clutched in his hand. "I did," he replied.

They'd talked about penetration before and decided that it would be best not to attempt it without some sort of lubrication; evidently the French boy had grown sick of waiting. Sherlock had to admit that he wanted to try it. If Julien hadn't taken the initiative, he wouldn't have lasted another week until they were allowed to roam London again. He'd meant to get some last weekend, but the police unit he'd been dogging around had actually started listening to a few of the points he was making and he'd become sidetracked. He'd regretted it immediately.

He stood up. "Do we have time?"

Julien grinned. "That depends on how thorough you want to be." His browned hand reached behind him and flicked the lock on the door. "There is an hour and a half before we will be required to be at lunch. I think that is likely to be sufficient."

Sherlock let the left corner of his mouth lift up. "You think so?" he took the three strides across his floor to stand in front of the other boy, their twin grins almost level. Julien was about an inch taller than Sherlock, once you discounted the unruly nature of his curls compared to the French boy's straight jet fringe. He lifted a finger up around Julien's cheekbones. "I might want to take longer."

"I surrender to your judgment," Julien said, his grin becoming even more pronounced. "I think it would be better if you were to take the penetrative role. You have displayed more control of yourself than I have." Sherlock quirked a teasing eyebrow. The French boy shrugged. "I do not wish to hurt you, _cheri_."

He chuckled. "Thanks." Without further ado, Sherlock grabbed Julien's chin and forced their lips together.

The French boy chuckled into the kiss, his hands rising automatically to wind and clutch at Sherlock's curls, pulling their bodies flush together. Sherlock smirked; Julien was already hard. Most likely the thoughts of what was about to happen had been in his mind for the entire walk back, and the thin fabric of his black trousers did little to hide it. He wondered if the boy had walked through the centre of London with an erection, walked past teachers on his way up the stairs. Boldly, he brought his hand around and traced the shape of the other boy's cock with his index finger. Julien shuddered and pressed closer, his hands leaving Sherlock's hair to pull at the buttons on his shirt.

The weekends were always interesting, when school uniform could be abandoned; the lack of a tie made undressing easier, for a start, and Sherlock was considering wearing shirts without buttons to further speed the process along. Last Saturday, however, Julien had dressed in tight trousers and a shirt that showed every bump and curve in his skinny torso and Sherlock had found himself barely able to sit through breakfast. He'd never expected someone's clothing to be so arousing, so suggestive of what was underneath.

Today, Julien's dark green shirt – two shades darker than his eyes – seemed to fall apart under his fingertips, the buttons slipping easily from their holes. Sherlock left the shirt hanging from his shoulders; the fabric was smooth and soft and felt oddly sensual against his skin as his own cotton shirt hit the floor. He wondered absently what it would feel like against his cock, and the organ twitched in his trousers in response.

Julien laughed again, gently, almost fondly, as Sherlock rubbed his chest against the shirt. "Perhaps we should leave on the shirt, if you like it so much?" he suggested. Sherlock retaliated by biting the French boy's chin sharply and grinning at the gasp he received in return.

"Then you'd never be able to wear it again in public," he cautioned. He could just imagine the other boy sitting at one of the tables in the dining-hall, picking at his food at his usual agonising pace while Sherlock sat opposite him, flashes of the bedroom intruding on his consciousness, itching to throw the shirt open and show everyone else at the table how nicely it complimented the brown of his tanned skin.

Impatient fingers pulled at his belt buckle. "So be it," Julien shrugged. Sherlock grinned, biting harshly down the side of his neck as his fingers managed to flick open the button on his trousers and yank them down to mid-thigh.

Sherlock took over the battle for his own trousers as Julien stepped back to remove the ones Sherlock had almost disposed of. "On the bed," he commanded, grabbing the lube and kicking his trousers off.

The French boy smirked. "Impatient," he remarked. Sherlock placed a hand in the centre of his chest and pushed backwards; still grinning, Julien overbalanced and fell backwards onto the bed, looking up and chuckling as Sherlock crawled on top of him. "_And _bossy," he finished smugly. Sherlock grinned back.

"Problem?"

Julien tilted his head judiciously. "Perhaps in the future _I_ will take control," he mused, running a firm, warm hand up Sherlock's arm. "When you do not expect it, _I _will be the bossy one, and you will have to wait."

Sherlock snorted. "Fine," he agreed. He wasn't sure if he'd like not being in control, and since Julien had never complained about his assuming it, he hadn't thought twice about the way he acted. It was in his nature to be bossy and impatient, and Julien knew that. But he'd heard that some people liked surrendering control in this way, so they may as well try it. "But you're just as desperate for this as I am," he reminded the other boy, bringing his hand back to the wet spot on Julien's charcoal-grey cotton pants, "so not today."

Warm hands continued their journey around his shoulder-blades and down his back, sliding sneakily under the waistband of his pants and squeezing his arse. "Not today," Julien agreed. Sherlock bent forwards to kiss him again as he moved his hand around from cupping and squeezing the French boy's cock to sliding the fabric away from it and nudging his legs apart.

"Are you sure you're ready to try this?" Sherlock checked.

Julien grinned. "If I decide otherwise, I will tell you." That was the rule: if either of them were uncomfortable, any experiment could be stopped at any time. Sherlock couldn't think of a situation in which he might be persuaded to call a halt to things, and he was fairly certain Julien felt the same. All in the name of Science, after all.

Sherlock grinned back, flicking Julien's pants off the bed and running idle fingers up his cock. The other boy gasped and threw his head back against the pillows, bringing his knees up on either side of Sherlock. Smirking teasingly, he flipped the cap on the bottle and poured a generous measure over his fingertips, rubbing his hands together.

It was slick and slippery, and he wondered what it would feel like on his cock, but he tore his mind away from there before his hands could wander. He would have to do that later anyway. He leaned forwards to place a quick, hard kiss on Julien's lips before pressing a finger to his entrance.

Julien drew in a sharp breath; Sherlock stilled the finger before it could penetrate. He didn't want to hurt the other boy, after all; he'd come to regard him with a fondness almost resembling friendship. "All right?" he asked instead, moving his finger in a circling motion around the pucker of skin, feeling it flutter and unclench under his touch.

"It is a sensitive area," the other boy replied breathlessly, his hands withdrawing from Sherlock's pants to hover hesitantly around his own groin. "Not unpleasant. I am relaxed enough now, I think…"

Still Sherlock hesitated, increasing the pressure but still not penetrating. He was just teasing now. Julien huffed in annoyance. "_Please_, Sherlock!" he said finally.

Surprised, Sherlock pushed his finger past the ring of muscle. Julien caught his breath, discomfort showing briefly on his expressive face before he relaxed. Sherlock's cock jumped at the feel of it, warm and so _tight_ around his finger as he gently worked it in and out. "What does it feel like?" he asked the other boy, noticing the timbre of his own voice, low and shaky.

Julien exhaled heavily. "Unusual." Sherlock applied more lube and slowly tried inserting another finger. The muscles around him clenched momentarily, then loosened enough for the digit to slip through. He watched, fascinated, as his two fingers moved inside the other boy. "It burns and stretches. Like when you do not prepare for exercise."

He pushed his fingers apart in slow scissoring motions, trying to gently widen the gap between them. They had tried to prepare themselves properly, but perhaps unsurprisingly hadn't been able to access any decent information over the internet without the school's content filter kicking in. Julien panted, shifting his hips to push back against the fingers.

Sherlock twisted his fingers sharply, grazing against the bump that he knew was Julien's prostate. The other boy gasped and cried out, arching his back, one hand clutching Sherlock's arm and the other reaching desperately for his own cock. Sherlock grabbed his wrist and dragged the hand away from his groin, grinning as he found the spot again. "Not yet," he whispered, letting go of Julien's wrist and placing a finger over his lips instead. "One more? Or do you think you can take it now?"

"Now," the other boy snapped instantly. "Sherlock, now – you must feel this, it is unlike… it's so…"

"All right," Sherlock gasped. The sight of Julien spread out across his bed, naked and so _wanton_, was irresistible. The French boy pulled Sherlock's pants down his legs and commandeered the lube from where it lay neglected on the bed beside them. "Ssh, though." He bent to give Julien's lips another occupation, seeing as the boy seemed to have the lube under control; their tongues tangled together immediately, hot and heady. Sherlock thrust his hips against Julien's thigh, desperately trying to find some friction.

Then there were hands on his cock, slick and cool with the liquid sliding along his length. Sherlock gasped and rutted faster; Julien chuckled. It was so unlike having bare hands on himself, the slick glide of the oily fluid tantalising and _not enough_. "_Julien_," he gasped. The other boy smiled. "Do you… can I…"

"Yes, now," Julien commanded, grabbing his arse and squeezing until he moved forwards.

He tried to move slowly, to be gentle, but it was difficult; he could feel the heat of Julien's body before any part of their bodies was touching and from the moment the head of his cock touched the other boy's entrance the heat was all-consuming. He thought suddenly that it was lucky Julien had mentioned the fact that he seemed to have better control over himself than the French boy, because the urge to push in quickly, hard and fast, was almost overwhelming. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood trying to keep his pace steady as Julien's body sucked him in.

Julien threw his head back against the pillow, whimpering. He had bitten his own lip in an attempt to keep quiet and was barely succeeding. Sherlock bent forward to kiss him again; the boy tended to make less noise when his mouth was occupied. Apparently the angle was better for Julien this way; he arched and tightened his hold on Sherlock's arse, his carefully manicured fingernails digging in painfully. "Let go," Sherlock whispered against his lips, letting the amusement show through his voice. "Your fingernails are hurting me. I'm going to have crescent-shaped marks on my arse – _you're_ the one who's not supposed to be able to sit down after this."

The French boy laughed softly and changed his grip so that his fingernails were out of the way, then yanked Sherlock's hips forward until he was fully seated, his hipbones resting comfortably in the hollows of Julien's inner thighs. He let out a choked moan, muffling it in the other boy's shoulder. "You've got to feel this. So _tight_, you… you can't imagine…"

"Move," Julien groaned, his fingernails tracing up Sherlock's back, his lips pressed together. "_Mon dieu, Sherlock, s'il tu plait –_ move!"

He chuckled as he rocked his hips forward, gently at first, then when Julien made a sort of mewling noise he joined their lips again and started to thrust harder; the heat was swallowing him and it was hard to keep in his mind that he couldn't make noise, that he couldn't tell the other boy just how _incredible_ he felt because if he opened his mouth he couldn't guarantee that people at the other end of the corridor wouldn't be able to hear him.

Julien moaned into the kiss and Sherlock felt a hand struggle to come between them as the French boy tried to grasp his own cock, jerking feverishly. "Close," he murmured. Sherlock groaned in response, his own toes curling, his abdomen tensing in preparation for orgasm. _"Sherlock_," the boy gasped. _"Sherlock, mon dieu, Sherlock!" _

He groaned in response, the sound rising in pitch when Julien's walls clenched and spasmed around him as semen splashed onto their chests, and he had to keep quiet, had to bite down on the soft part of Julien's shoulder to muffle himself as the other boy's body pulled his orgasm from him, wave after wave until his arms shook and he could barely hold himself up.

Sherlock carefully pulled out and flopped onto his back on the bed. Still panting, Julien propped himself onto one elbow and gently pushed a stray curl away from Sherlock's eyes. Surprised at the tenderness of the gesture, Sherlock let it pass without comment. "That was incredible," he said instead. "You have to try it."

Julien's sharp green eyes flicked to the clock. "There is still half an hour before lunch," he said teasingly.

Sherlock just grinned.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Sherlock."<p>

He looked up from the book; Joseph Grieg's amiable face grinned back at him. Sherlock forced a smile. "Afternoon, Mr Grieg."

The teacher bore a sort of look that Sherlock knew meant he intended to have a conversation, so he closed his book out of politeness, glancing around the library. After all, he did enjoy the blond man's company. "How are you doing?" Grieg asked tentatively. He seemed almost nervous.

"I'm good, thank you. How are you?"

Grieg grinned at the news. "Oh, great, good. Are you… how's Julien?"

Sherlock frowned slightly. Was _that_ what this was about? The teacher attempting to ascertain whether the 'friend' he had acquired was a good one? "He's fine."

"Good." The man's fingers tapped on the tabletop a few times; Grieg suddenly leaned forwards confidentially. "Sherlock… I'm not stupid. I know what's going on there." Sherlock blinked; he hadn't ascribed the teacher enough intelligence, apparently. He and Julien had taken great pains to keep their physical relationship behind closed doors – 'sexual relations' were meant to be strictly forbidden on school grounds. There was some sort of rule no-one ever followed about doors being open at all times when a girl and a boy were in a room together, but the teachers were generally accepted as turning a blind eye to that sort of thing. He and Julien had thought that this tolerance might not stretch to their sort of relationship.

He smiled tentatively. "I see."

Mr Grieg smiled back, so Sherlock relaxed slightly. "Don't worry, I'm not about to say anything – it bothers me that the others ignore it when it's heterosexual, but they pulled up a couple of girls last year for – anyway, it's not important. They weren't being particularly discreet. I just want to… you'll be careful, won't you, Sherlock?"

"How do you mean?" Sherlock asked politely. Grieg smiled fondly.

"I mean… don't get your heart broken. I don't want to see you hurt. It's hard when you're a teenager and a lot of people haven't quite sorted out whether they like men or women. There's a lot of potential for change, and people don't always give you a lot of notice when that happens."

Sherlock almost said _is that what happened to you?_, but he bit it back just in time. "Thank you, Mr Grieg. I think that's unlikely in this case. And I'm certain my _heart_ is safe."

The teacher shrugged lightly. "Just be mindful, I guess. You can tell yourself it isn't about emotion, but so much of the time it really is even when you don't realise it."

He chuckled. "Thanks. But I'm big enough and ugly enough to take care of myself."

Grieg chuckled too, but his was softer, emptier. "Oh, you're anything but ugly, Sherlock," he said gently. Sherlock looked up at him in surprise; he continued to smile for a moment and then seemed to realise what he had said. "Enjoy the rest of your day," the teacher said quickly, scooping the Classics exam guidebook off the table and standing up. "I'll see you at dinner, I'm on duty."

Sherlock watched with some amusement as the blond man beat a hasty retreat from the library. He hadn't quite believed Julien when the boy had said that Grieg was interested in him sexually, but it was difficult to think anything else from the almost wistful tone of voice he'd used at the end of the conversation. He wondered what he was supposed to make of that.

He didn't think about it again until after dinner. He and Julien were in his room, the bed littered with paper and Chemistry textbooks, the two of them sitting cross-legged in their pants over a set of equations. Suddenly the thought popped back into his head.

"Greig talked to me again today," he voiced casually, biting at the end of his pencil thoughtfully.

Julien looked up at him, but his eyes wandered down to the pencil in his mouth. Sherlock removed it to help him concentrate. "The teacher that desires you?" the French boy clarified calmly.

Sherlock grinned. "I didn't believe you, but you were right."

"Yes," Julien said simply, smiling as Sherlock deliberately inserted the pencil back into his mouth. "The question now is, what are you going to do about it?"


	12. Chapter 10

_Islington High School, 1992_

John met Sophia in the sixth-form common room after dinner to be greeted with some kind of mass orgy.

A group of boys in the centre seemed to have procured a bottle of Smirnoff from somewhere, and were parading it around in a swaggering manner that suggested it wasn't the first they'd consumed. Sophia was already there when John arrived, and all heads turned swiftly towards him, the babble of excited noise cutting off abruptly at the sight of a seventh-former. John grinned. "Don't worry," he said easily. "Just keep the noise down, or you'll get slammed."

Sophia smiled shyly at him. "Shall we try downstairs?" she asked. He grinned. "You wonder why we think you're great. They all expected you to yell at them."

He snorted. "They can't think I'm _too_ great, then."

"They do now." The two of them made their way down the stairs to the fifth-form common room, the noise from upstairs fading until somebody started up a set of speakers and the baseline followed them downwards. John wondered if that was going to be irritating from above when he was trying to sleep.

"I swear you sixth-formers have more fun than us," he mused. "You're not even legally allowed to buy alcohol, and yet you somehow manage to have it more than we do."

Sophia smiled again. "That's because you've grown out of it," she explained mock-patiently. "If you stay for upper sixth you're focusing on study and not screwing around getting drunk on weeknights. And besides, the novelty of alcohol wears off once it's legal."

He chuckled. "I see." The fifth-form common room was much quieter; someone had put on quiet music to attempt to cover the gentle throbbing of the baseline from upstairs, and apart from a small group who appeared to be playing poker in one corner, the few scattered occupants were all studying or reading quietly. He and Sophia set themselves up in a corner by the window looking out across the football field.

"So," he said lightly. "It was validity you were having trouble with, wasn't it?"

She pulled out an exercise book and a ream of stapled paper. "Yeah. I brought the test we all failed – I thought maybe if we went over that? It's a test, so it should have all the key bits of information, or whatever."

John grinned and pulled the test towards him. "Right. _Justin Case has a swimming pool in_ – hey! This is the same test she used last year. I'd remember that name anywhere."

Sophia lifted her hand to bite nervously at her thumbnail. "How did you do, then?"

"Well, none of us aced it. It's a hard test. I'm pretty sure she just uses it to scare people into studying, because the actual test we got given was way easier than this. So don't panic."

When he looked up from flicking through the paper to make sure that it was, in fact, the same as they sat last year, her face was considerably closer to his than could be called coincidental, and yet not quite close enough that the intention behind it was obvious if John chose not to take the hint.

He took the hint, shifting in his chair so that his own face inched closer to hers, his eyes dropping down to her lips -

"John."

He sat up quickly and turned to face the speaker, pretending not to notice Sophia biting her lip in disappointment. "Jim!" he greeted, surprised to see the Irish boy standing in front of him with a steaming mug of PG Tips and a smug expression, like he knew _exactly_ what he'd just interrupted. "Hi."

The younger boy grinned cheerfully. "Hi. Look, I just wanted to say, I'm sorry for blowing up at you yesterday. I was just a little bit stressed. I didn't mean it."

John bit his lip guiltily. "Yeah, you did. I'm the one who should be sorry. I know you can take care of yourself and I was babying you. I don't do it on purpose."

"I know."

Sophia coughed slightly. "Hi," she introduced. "I'm Sophia – John's girlfriend."

_Girlfriend? _Jim's eyes barely flickered in her direction, a tiny smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. "Hi," he replied, his eyes on John, who was trying not to look surprised or too foolishly pleased with the title Sophia had just given herself. "I really am sorry."

John shrugged easily. "You don't have to apologise. Everyone has bad days." When Jim kept hovering, he sighed and relented. "Did you have homework or something? We could start a study group." Sophia shifted in her seat beside him, but didn't protest. Jim grinned.

"Yeah. I'd like that." John sighed as the Irish boy left his mug of tea on their table and left the room.

The tea smelled fairly enticing, though, so he looked back up at Sophia with a smile on his face. "Did you want tea? Or coffee? I think I have some cocoa upstairs, and biscuits. Might as well make a proper thing of it. You don't mind, do you?"

She pouted. "For a moment there I had you all to myself," she said lightly. "Cocoa and biscuits sounds nice. Mum sent me some brownies yesterday, I'll go get them."

He met Bill in the corridor on the way back, his arms full of books. "I thought you were tutoring?" the redhead said indignantly. "How'd you manage to mess that up? The girl idolised you."

John rolled his eyes. "You shut up. I'm getting snacks. Jim showed up, I suggested we turn it into a study group. You can join us, as long as you promise not to make too much noise."

Bill pouted prettily. "Are you telling me I'm noisy?"

"Oh, no!" John teased, mock-affronted, ducking into his room. "I would never even _think_ that."

The redhead grinned. "All right, all right. Sarcasm doesn't go with a pretty face, Johnny-boy." He dropped the books pointedly on the floor with a resounding _crash_ and fished in his pocket for his keys. "Well, I'd hate to have to eat that entire block of chocolate I bought last weekend by myself, so I guess I'd better join you."

Ten minutes later they were back, a pile of biscuits and brownies between them and nursing mugs of cocoa, Jim curled up in an armchair he'd pulled around to face their table and buried in his Law and Politics textbook while John and Sophia resumed their examination of her variability test. Bill's stack of books hit the table loudly. "And people say English is a bum course," he lamented, looking down at them. "Oh, hey, Sophie," he greeted. "John, you didn't tell me it was Sophie you were tutoring."

John looked from one to the other. "I didn't realise you two knew each other," he said. Sophia was grinning at Bill like a big brother.

"We used to go to the same swim-school," she said happily. Bill grinned, biting off a piece of chocolate and then holding the bar out to her. "Did you do the school swimming this year?"

Bill chuckled, perching on the arm of Jim's chair and earning a roll of the eyes from the younger boy. "Of course. I saw you there, don't you remember? Pretty sure I congratulated you after you got through to the inter-school, too."

"That's right, I remember." Bill tucked his legs into a dainty but somewhat precarious position on the arm of the chair, his backside inching closer to Jim's face. The Irish boy looked up, meeting John's eyes and grinning, his hand tapping impatiently on his textbook.

John grinned back, seeing what he was planning. "You're through to inter-school? When's that, we should go and watch."

Sophia blushed. "Oh, no, you shouldn't," she deflected. "It won't be exciting or anything."

Bill shrugged. "I'm going anyway. After I almost got kicked in the face by Carl-bloody-Powers. I swear, he only got through because –"

At that moment, Jim shot out a hand to connect with Bill's arm and shoved; the redhead, precariously balanced, let out a high-pitched shriek and toppled off the arm of the chair, landing in an undignified heap on the floor. John and Jim dissolved into helpless laughter.

"Wow. Thanks." Bill shook his fringe out of his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet, Sophia joining in the laughter along with a few of the fifth-years on the other side of the room. "You'll pay for that, pipsqueak."

Jim raised an implacable eyebrow in challenge.

* * *

><p>John didn't see Sophia again until dinner the next day. He and Bill were already seated when she bounced up to them, carrying a tray of some kind of stew – <em>beef boil-up<em>, it had said on the menu, and yet they'd had this argument already and they were fairly certain it was pork – and beaming at them.

"Hi," she said when she reached them. "Mind if I sit with you?"

Bill grinned alarmingly widely. "Of course not," he said brightly. "You're John's girlfriend, after all, right?"

She grinned back. "Right."

John wondered briefly whether he was ever going to have a say in this. Not that he particularly minded, of course, but even so; you'd think that _he_ would have to call her his girlfriend first before anyone else started doing it. He smiled nonetheless when she caught his eye and slid into the seat beside him, putting his hand over hers when she touched his arm.

"So you never told me when inter-school swimming was," he reminded her as she scooted closer to him on the bench so that their sides were touching. She blushed and opened her mouth to reply, but John could tell what she was going to say. "What if I want to support you?" he countered.

Sophia laughed. "All right, all right. Tuesday week. I think I'd like it if you came."

He smiled. "Well, then, that's settled. You're going, Bill, right?" he shot over the table at the redhead, who grinned and nodded.

They were about halfway through their dinner – Sophia's arm bumping gently against John's as they tried to eat at the same time so close together, which should have been annoying but managed somehow to be sweet and heartwarming – when a tray clattered gently to the table beside Bill.

John was telling Sophia a story from boot-camp in a low voice, his head inching closer to hers, and so he didn't look up as the quiet Irish lilt floated across the table. "Hey, John, Bill. Sophia."

"Hey, Jim," John replied without looking. "You took your time."

The boy coughed gently, lowering himself onto the bench. "Yeah, I got held up a bit."

That must have been when Bill looked up from dissecting a lump of meat to try and ascertain whether it was beef or pork and noticed. "Jesus, Jim, what happened to you?"

John looked up sharply. "Christ!" he exclaimed. "_When_ did that happen?"

Jim raised an eyebrow in what would have been a carefully bored expression had he not winced in the middle of pulling it because of the impressive, dark blue-purple bruise spreading around his left eye. John winced in sympathy; it looked enormously painful. He could almost _see_ it throbbing. "I tripped this morning and hit my head on my desk-chair," the younger boy excused, dignifiedly picking up his fork.

"Like hell you did!" John hissed, aware that yelling would simply draw more attention to them, which had to be the last thing Jim wanted. "You look like someone grabbed your head and _forced_ it into a desk-chair. You look like you're lucky to still have an _eye._" He leaned forward, trying to get a closer look. "How badly does it hurt?"

The Irish boy stared at him for a while, and then when he stared resolutely back, sighed and shrugged. "Fairly badly. There's no way I'm going to a nurse or anything, though."

John sighed. "Don't worry. I've got some arnica cream upstairs, I'll take a look at it. You weren't going to eat that dinner, were you?"

"Would it be _worth_ it?" Jim asked, glancing at Bill, who shook the piece of beef – or was it pork? – off his fork and shook his head. "Fine. Let's go. Thank you, _Doctor Watson_," he said, in a tone of voice that wasn't quite mocking and yet definitely wasn't respectful or even grateful.

He disengaged himself gently from Sophie. "I'll just go help Jim, and then I'll come and find you?" he ventured. She nodded, putting her fork down as Bill stood up too. "Sorry for leaving you alone like this."

"It's fine," she replied, smiling sympathetically at Jim, who looked as though he was trying rather hard not to stick his tongue out at her. "I'd want something on that bruise as soon as possible. It looks nasty. I'll be in the sixth-floor common-room, I'll see you later."

Jim protested most of the way upstairs, to the point that the part of John that was bubbling with rage at whoever did this to him was struggling not to grab the boy's arm and physically drag him up the stairs. "You're not fine," he snapped finally, throwing the door open so hard it banged against the wall. Jim raised his good eyebrow at him, but stepped calmly into the room. Bill propped the door open with a stop, but John shook his head at him, so he let it swing closed behind him.

He sat the younger boy down on his bed. "First question. When did this happen? I need to know if we can make the bruising go down."

"Between second and third class," Jim replied, somehow managing to look bored. "So around ten-thirty."

John frowned. "Right. If you're lucky it might have gone down in the morning. Now the real questions: who the _hell_ did this to you so I can kick their arse to China?"

Jim tried to frown, winced, and gave up. "Why do you care?" he asked.

"Because you're my friend," he replied angrily, rooting around in his desk-drawers for the arnica cream he'd needed after boot camp.

"But even before that. The first time you saw me you started defending me. Why do you care?"

John looked back at the boy sitting awkwardly at the end of his bed, hands twisting in his lap. "I don't know," he said quietly. "But I've always cared."

Bill snorted. "It's something to do with his genetic makeup," he speculated, propping himself up with John's desk-chair. "He's been like that since we first met. Can't stand to see other people get hurt." He grinned over at John, recovering with the tube of cream in his hand. "I reckon we're lucky he wants to keep us around."

John, embarrassed and awkwardly flattered, threw his pencil-case at him. Jim laughed quietly as John propelled him backwards on the bed, settling in front of him. "I'm going to touch it," he warned gently. "It's going to hurt. You can squeeze my arm if you have to, apparently that makes it easier." Jim grinned wryly, snaking one long-fingered hand around John's shirt-sleeve as he reached the other hand up, his fingers covered in cream.

He had a remarkably strong grip. John wondered if he was doing it purely because he'd offered, or because it really did hurt. Judging by the almost imperceptible twitching and flinching as John's fingers gently probed and prodded the bruise, Jim had finally succumbed to the fact that he was in pain. John's anger settled to a hot simmering in his stomach as pity came to the fore.

"I can't believe someone would do this to you," he said quietly. "I mean, to _anyone_, but to you especially. You're so incredible and clever and funny, and they don't even _bother_ to find that out." Jim's dark eyes widened under his fingertips, which only made the pity threaten to choke him all the more violently. People didn't tell him he was brilliant often enough.

Jim tried to chuckle and make light of it, but he knew John had seen his original reaction. "That's not what people normally say," he passed off.

John tried to smile, but then it hit him, and he felt like vomiting. "Carl Powers did this, didn't he," he said lowly. Jim smiled sadly. "He never left you alone. That's why you snapped at me the other day, isn't it?"

"I said I was sorry," Jim shrugged.

Anger bubbled higher in John's stomach. "You shouldn't have, it's not your fault." He shook his head as he dabbed more arnica cream over the Irish boy genius' black eye. "I'm going to kill him."

Jim smiled thinly. "That won't be necessary."


	13. Second Interlude

_St Anthony's Temporary Medical Shelter, Kandahar, 2008_

Agony.

They brought him in on a temporary stretcher, little more than a piece of fabric stretched out between two hands, and every bump and graze of the unsteady terrain sent him reeling back into unconsciousness.

Those people he'd cared for that had screamed at the top of their lungs that it felt like their body was on fire, felt like something was eating them from the inside, they were all wrong.

Most of them had been on drugs at the time anyway.

Even unconscious, it hurt; his brain supplemented the pain with fleeting images of the field, of friends' laughter being cut off sharply, of blood and the smell of hospitals and dirt and mosquito spray that couldn't be separated anymore, of Bill's red hair flashing in front of his eyes with feverish speed and the desperate half-conscious muttering of _John, no, come on, we can do this, you'll be fine, come on, John, please, don't leave me here. _Of a child seizing in a swimming pool and pale grey-green eyes watching him desperately as he walked away.

John blinked himself into consciousness on an operating table, which turned out to be a big mistake.

He was in agony. He couldn't move. He was going to throw up, only he was lying on his back and he couldn't roll over because his shoulder was screaming and he didn't want to choke, because that was the most unimpressive and unattractive way to die he could possibly think of. He'd been shot in the shoulder, for Chrissakes. It wasn't fatal. He was fine.

Only it really hurt.

"_John?"_

God, that voice sounded so far away. But it was Bill's voice, he could see the redhead standing at the foot of his bed, looking terrified and nauseated and watching with extreme concern someone who was standing behind his bed. John supposed they must be holding some sort of needle. Or a scalpel. Or any sort of medical implement, really, Bill had always been a bit squeamish.

A mask descended on his face and he tried to shrug it off – he worked in this makeshift hospital, he knew what they put in those knockout gas concoctions and it wasn't nitrous – but Bill stood up and the man behind him was strong and he supposed if his friend looked _that_ worried, whatever was about to happen was probably something he didn't want to be awake for.

The next time he woke up his throat was raw from screaming, but he couldn't stop.

His shoulder didn't hurt anymore, which he supposed would be something of a bonus if the _reason_ it didn't hurt had been anything other than the fact that his body was concentrating all its efforts on feeling the pain in his leg.

He'd been shot again. In the hospital. How did that even happen?

Whatever had been in that knockout gas they'd given him, if that was what they gave everyone else, he'd have to say something to the General. He couldn't even _remember_ being shot. The last thing he remembered was being out there, in a van bouncing along a dirt track, holding on to the handle on the door to avoid being thrown out the window, smiling at the kid sitting opposite him - the kid who had only been there for two weeks, the kid who had got up at five every morning to check the post to see if there had been a letter from his mother - and then there was a rattling sound and everyone in the van was jumping back, pressing against the sides of the van and trying to stay away from the windows, but the boy opposite John had collapsed onto the van floor, clutching his leg and screaming, and there was blood and it was awful and he couldn't help it.

John screamed.

He was falling to his knees in front of the boy – _just a kid_, his brain kept repeating dumbly – pressing his hands into his thighs, applying pressure, trying to minimise the blood loss and hoping the kid would survive until they could get back to St Anthony's, and Bill was shouting at him but everything sounded so far away and he couldn't hear what they were saying as he fumbled with one hand for his medical bag because there had to be _something_ he could do, and there were hands fumbling with his shirt trying to tug him backwards but he couldn't go because he had to save the kid, he couldn't quite remember his name but he was important and he'd never got that letter from his mother and then there was another rattling sound and a pain in his shoulder and _agony, agony_…

He screamed until someone came running, clutching at his leg with his right hand because the left one didn't want to move. He screamed until the people carefully prodding and examining the leg gave up and left. He screamed until they came back and shoved the gas mask in his face again and he screamed until he had no breath and he passed out.

The fourth time that cycle of _sleep-scream-wake-remember-scream-unconscious_ happened he'd had enough.

His leg hurt. It hurt like someone had forced a thin rod of hot glass into the muscle of his lower thigh and it was burning him; his shoulder had risen to the fore again because someone had touched it while he was unconscious, and he could _feel_ that there had been a bullet lodged inside it somewhere and now there wasn't. He supposed that was a good thing. Or it would have been, if it didn't hurt so much.

At least he'd be heading home after this, if he survived it. At the moment it didn't feel like he would. Which was fine, really, as long as it wouldn't hurt after he died. Actually that was starting to sound pretty good.

He didn't scream.

The memory that he had had when they first bumped and dragged him into the temporary medical shelter floated back into his head. The child having some kind of seizure in the swimming pool, the grey-green eyes in an angular face framed by dark curls watching him, silently pleading him not to leave.

There was something he still had to do.

John Watson gritted his teeth until the medics came back to stitch up his shoulder.

He'd done something way back then that he regretted, and he'd told himself that he'd fix it when he came back from Afghanistan. He had to go back, because he couldn't let what he'd done define him in _anyone's_ memory, even if there had only been one person there to remember him.

He had to go back and find Sherlock Holmes.


	14. Chapter 11

_Cuxton Grammar School, Central London, 1992_

Sherlock walked out of Biology on Monday morning to almost walk straight into Julien.

Not that the French boy noticed. He was busy.

When Sherlock made a surprised sort of coughing noise, his friend pulled his body away from the brunette he'd been almost leaning against as though there was some kind of Velcro sticking them together and turned to face him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

The brunette had been in Sherlock's Physics class the year before; bright, but too arrogant to ever truly do well. Now he looked ever-so-slightly dazed in the face of Julien's openly flirtatious manner; Sherlock understood quite well his reaction to the look in those green eyes that threatened to eat the receiver alive. Julien grinned. "Sherlock. You must know Sebastian."

Sebastian Wilkes' thin mouth curled up into a sneer, which Sherlock returned at full force. "I'll leave you two alone, then, shall I?" he asked, trying not to sound hurt. He _wasn't_, really.

"I will come to see you before dinner?" Julien replied, smiling. Sherlock tried to smile back and then walked away as quickly as he could manage without his need to leave becoming too obvious.

It wasn't that he felt like the other boy was betraying him, or _cheating _on him in any traditional sense. Their relationship wasn't traditional enough for that, and nowhere had they explicitly said they were going to be exclusive. He simply hadn't thought there was anything the other boy might _need_ from someone else, and he couldn't help being the slightest bit miffed that it appeared there was something he wasn't getting from their 'arrangement'.

It was barely twenty minutes before the other boy was knocking on his door and entering without ceremony. Sherlock tried to face him with a vaguely cheerful expression as he sat down on the bed. Julien wasn't fooled.

"I have not hurt you, _cheri?_" he asked carefully.

Sherlock shook his head. "I just don't quite understand."

"Perhaps I mistook the purpose of our relationship?" Julien questioned coolly, tucking his feet underneath him. "I had thought that we were simply experimenting. I assumed that this meant we would have to practise elsewhere, to ensure the results were not simply fluke."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his practicality. That made sense; how could they tell if their technique was good if they only tried it on each other? He chuckled. "That seems logical." Julien splayed his hands in a _you-see_? gesture. "But why Wilkes?"

His friend shrugged. "He was denying his sexuality to himself. I saw the challenge."

_Challenge_. The word sounded too familiar when applied to Julien and himself. Sherlock quirked another smile. _Well, challenge accepted._

* * *

><p>Joseph Grieg was quick to open his office door and let Sherlock in. It was darker in there than the corridor outside; the curtains were half-drawn, casting a warm yellow light over everything. This coupled with the sheets and sheets of paper everywhere to create an almost Classical air that was warm and comforting. As he moved back behind his desk, Grieg almost looked like some ancient historian.<p>

"What can I do for you, Sherlock?" he asked brightly, picking up a biro and twirling it between his fingers. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and adopted the persona he'd planned. "Yeah, I think so. I just… wanted company. If you're not too busy."

Grieg nodded amiably. "Of course. Is Julien… not available?"

He bit his lip. "I… I think so. I don't really know what he's doing anymore." He watched in satisfaction as the young teacher's face contorted in sympathy. "It's my fault. You warned me. I just thought he was more like me, you know?"

"I'm really sorry," Grieg said softly. "Sometimes people are like that."

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, I know. He's not the first. I just… I'm difficult. I can't really blame them for not wanting to be around me."

To his surprise, the older man looked angry. He dropped the pen and leaned forward across the desk, folding his arms. "There is _no_ reason not to want to be around you, Sherlock Holmes," he said sharply. "You are smart and funny and _so_ interesting – the things you know are amazing. _Already_. One day you're going to make an incredible detective. You'll get everything you want, and everyone who ever made you feel inferior will end up in some boring job that they hate with nobody who loves them."

Sherlock chuckled lowly, leaning forwards over the desk, bringing his face closer to the teacher's. "Do you really think so?" he asked. He watched as the blond's eyes dropped quickly to his lips, and licked them; he could almost laugh to himself. The man was _so_ easy – how had he not seen this before?

"Of course I do," he replied, his voice lower than normal. Then he seemed to come back to himself, clearing his throat and leaning back again. Sherlock let his disappointment show on his face.

He reached for his bag, biting his lip. "I have a book I'm supposed to read for Chemistry. I don't want to disturb you, but do you mind if I do it here? I just want… to be around someone."

Grieg smiled softly. "Of course. Come and sit up here, it'll be more comfortable." He patted the wide windowsill beside him, the curtains drawn back to show cushions propped up against the side of the window. Sherlock grinned and almost vaulted the desk to get over there; he could reach the teacher easier from there. "I might disturb you, though. I'm marking essays. It helps if I read them out loud."

"That's fine," Sherlock said quickly, wriggling his bottom into a cushion. "I like the sound of your voice."

It was true; Grieg had a smooth tenor voice that rose and fell in nice ways. He told stories off the top of his head from Greek and Roman mythology and legend and history that Sherlock deleted straight after he heard but enjoyed listening to anyway. The blond smiled. "Thank you," he said.

Sherlock got impatient very quickly. Yes, Grieg's voice kept up a steady stream of noise that was somehow comforting even if it didn't mean anything, but the Chemistry textbook was boring and he hadn't really turned up to sit there and listen to the other man talk. To try to get his attention on more favourable matters, Sherlock dropped the pretence of Chemistry entirely and stared openly at him, his finger dragging over his bottom lip. Grieg, though, was buried in an essay that seemed distinctly sub-par and didn't seem to notice. He started to pay more attention to what the teacher was actually saying; the essay was written about some kind of pot or vase and while generally it seemed pretty dull, the odd word stood out among the babble that Sherlock thought he could turn in his favour.

"In which three maenads are seduced by a number of satyrs," Grieg read from the paper, tapping his pen against his chin. Sherlock adopted an expression of helpless lust. "Hmm. She probably should have said something more about the satyrs – _mention more about this; satyrs ithyphallic and –_"

Sherlock whimpered.

Joseph Grieg's head shot up; Sherlock carefully held the expression for a moment before hurriedly looking away, clearing his throat and returning to his Chemistry textbook, blinking hard. He listened, feeling his face flush helpfully red. From the shocked silence punctuated by heavy breathing, he'd been right; it was his adolescence, the vulnerability that came with it, that attracted the teacher. Which was interesting in itself; he didn't dare look over, but he could tell the older man was still watching him, mouth open, as he processed the fact that Sherlock very obviously wanted him.

He didn't expect him to give in straight away. There would be some sort of moral discussion first. But it was a start.

"Sherlock…"

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, still not looking up. "Just forget it, please. I can… I'll stop, I promise."

Grieg cleared his throat again. "Sherlock," he said, firmer this time. To his surprise, Sherlock felt his already half-hard cock twitch at the stern note of command. "Sherlock, look at me."

Reluctantly, he did. Sure enough, the young teacher was looking at him, his cheeks slightly pink, mouth slack. Sherlock bit his lip harder, trying to exaggerate the innocence in his look. Grieg smiled softly, looking as though the movement hurt. "It's not that I don't want it," he said. Sherlock widened his eyes. "Want _you_," Grieg corrected. "It's… Sherlock, we _can't_. If we get caught I'll never get another job, _ever._"

Sherlock slid his bottom down the windowsill until his legs fell off the edge. "Then let's not get caught," he pleaded. The blond opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to say. "It _is_ that simple," he counteracted, watching Grieg's blue eyes widen, the pupils dilating. "We just have to be quiet. _Please,_ Mr Grieg. Just this once, we never have to do it again."

The older man chuckled. "I don't know if I'd be able to be with you _just once_," he said, his voice rough. Sherlock smiled. "I just… Sherlock, it's too risky."

"That's okay," Sherlock said after a pause, making sure his face showed that it was anything but. "I don't want you to lose your job because of me." He looked around sadly, pointedly adjusting his erection in his trousers as he stood up. "I should go."

As he started to leave Grieg's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "Please don't, Sherlock. Don't just go, I don't want this to…" Sherlock bit his lip and tried to look like he was trying not to cry; Grieg squeezed his hand. "Would you come here?" he asked softly.

Slowly, Sherlock stepped forwards until he was standing right in front of the chair. Grieg looked up at him. "Are… are you sure you can keep quiet?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I promise I won't ask again. Just once."

There was a pause. Then Grieg sighed. "I'd be going straight to Hell if I believed in it," he said.

"It'd be worth it," Sherlock retaliated, and leaned down to kiss him.

It started soft, but with all the fervour of the apparently-inexperienced teenager Sherlock almost immediately opened his mouth and pressed closer, lowering his body into the teacher's lap. Grieg brought his hands around to hold him there, warm and almost _cradling_, and it felt surprisingly nice, so he took the opportunity to rock his pelvis forward and mash their erections together. The teacher gasped into Sherlock's mouth and he swallowed the sound eagerly.

Very quickly, Sherlock's eagerness stopped being fake and became the only thing he could think about. Snogging Grieg was entirely different to snogging Julien. Grieg's hands were everywhere, gentle yet firm, reassuring Sherlock and yet asserting a definite element of control that, for some reason, made him shudder.

"Oh, Mr Grieg," he gasped when they tore their lips apart, resting their foreheads together.

The teacher stroked his hand up the back of Sherlock's neck, twining his fingers in his curls. "Joe," he corrected softly. "Please, it's Joe."

Sherlock dipped his head to lick and suck at the man's lips. "Joe," he whispered, rocking his hips forward again. Grieg grunted, shifting his own body to meet the thrusts. His fingers dug desperately into the fabric of the older man's shirt as he pulled them compulsively closer to each other, needing more friction, more contact, just _more, more, more_.

"More," he mumbled into Grieg's neck, sliding his body down the teacher's, letting his lips catch on the tiny exposed bits of skin and breathing in the whimpers and soft sounds he was drawing out of the taller man until his knees hit the floor.

From this angle, Joseph Grieg really did look stunningly handsome. From a strictly objective point of view, Sherlock relished the chance to take him apart piece by piece and watch him completely abandoned. He slid his fingers up the warm denim restraining his strong thighs and reached for the button on Grieg's trousers.

"Sherlock," the other man gasped. "You don't have to…"

"I want to," he assured him, his fingers popping the button and surging on towards the zipper. The flesh underneath the fabric was hot and pulsing and it felt _fantastic_ under his fingertips. "_God_, I want to."

Grieg's head hit the back of his chair as he let all his breath out in a _whoosh_. "I'm clean," he said, almost as an afterthought.

Sherlock smiled fondly. "I trust you," he said, nimbly inserting his fingers into the other man's pants and grinning at the resulting groan.

Joe was bigger than Sherlock, but he'd expected that; proportionally, the rest of the man's body was broader than his own. It also curved rather spectacularly to the left, which was interesting: both his and Julien's were more or less straight. Without further ado or inspection, he slid his mouth over it and sucked.

"_Oh, God, Sherlock!" _

Grieg was surprisingly responsive; each twist of Sherlock's tongue and caress of his fingers around the base of his prick elicited delicious noises. He wondered how long the older man had been fantasising about him to have such a strong response. He knew he wouldn't last if Sherlock kept up the pace he'd started, so he gently slid the man out of his mouth and looked up at him again through lowered lashes, lapping slowly at his balls.

The teacher groaned startlingly loudly before clapping his own hand over his mouth. "You've done this before," he accused.

Sherlock grinned. "Just a few times."

He gave a long lick from base to tip, grinning shyly at the choked noises coming from behind Grieg's hand. Then he grabbed the other hand that was digging into his shoulder and placed it firmly on his head.

Julien hadn't dared to take control like this; it was the one thing that irritated Sherlock slightly about the things that they did together. After the first time he'd almost choked him, Julien seemed to prefer to take a back-seat role where he wouldn't hurt Sherlock if he lost control. Sherlock didn't mind so much – after all, he rather enjoyed being the one to hold the reins. Only sometimes he wondered what it would be like to surrender them, to follow someone else's direction for a while.

_This_ was what it would be like. Grieg shifted his hand until his fingers were looped in Sherlock's curls, his palm hot and heavy against the back of Sherlock's head, just a gentle pressure easing him forwards. Sherlock let it guide him, taking more of Grieg into his mouth, his fingers stroking calmly at what he could reach below the teacher's cock through the thick fabric of his jeans.

Grieg was better at keeping quiet than Julien was, the steady sound of his heavy breathing broken only by the occasional gasp or grunt as Sherlock did something unexpected. His hands, however, made up for this lack of expression; the one fisted in Sherlock's hair tightened and loosened with the rhythm he was attempting to maintain, which meant every time Sherlock bore down on his cock Grieg tugged on his hair to the point of pain. This shouldn't have been making him more aroused, but it really was. He'd think about that later. The other hand was busying itself stroking firm circles into the skin of his neck, sliding under the stiff collar of his shirt to caress his shoulder. When he came, Grieg brought both hands up to cup the back of Sherlock's neck, his every muscle contracting, and let out a long, soft groan.

Sherlock sat back and wiped the saliva from his chin, grinning smugly. When the older man's eyes refocused enough to see him properly, Grieg chuckled. "Look at you," he teased gently. Sherlock grinned back, standing up and replacing himself on the teacher's lap, his achingly-hard prick digging into the other man's thigh. "God, Sherlock," Grieg breathed, wrapping his arms around him and drawing him close. "You're so incredible. You didn't have to do that."

"I liked it," Sherlock assured him, rutting into his leg to prove it. The bigger man laughed again, grabbing his head and pulling him down rather forcefully for a kiss. Sherlock squirmed and rutted faster. "I think you – unh!"

Grieg had slipped his hands down when Sherlock broke the kiss to talk, grabbed his hips, and before he had a chance to register what was happening, lifted him up and deposited him on the edge of the desk. Sherlock watched, panting, as he slid down his chair and onto his knees with fluid grace. For a moment he _felt_ as immature as he was acting, _felt_ like a naïve kid with a stupid crush on a teacher that had somehow managed to come to fruition. Grieg's hands gripped his thighs reassuringly while his own scrabbled at the desk for purchase, trying not to catch a handful of essay that would then have to be explained away when it was handed back.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Grieg checked, one hand leaving Sherlock's leg to push his curls back from his face in keeping with the gentle expression on his face.

Frustrated, Sherlock squirmed again. "Joe, _please_," he whined, tugging at the hand on his thigh until it brushed against his groin.

Grieg laughed. "All right. Good. Lift your hips?"

He did so; quickly and without ceremony, the older man whisked his school trousers and pants down to his knees and placed him back down on the desk. Sherlock shifted slightly; he was sitting on someone's essay.

It didn't matter. Grieg's fingers were trailing up his cock, firmly, not teasing. Sherlock couldn't even begin to express how grateful he was that the older man knew somehow that he needed that. And then the teacher's mouth was on him. Sherlock marvelled for a moment: that mouth had always been gentle. Joseph Grieg never cursed or got angry with students, even the ones that swore at him and threatened him for no apparent reason. Now that it was around him, though, it was firm and unyielding, a hand fondling his exposed balls as those lips worked steadily and with an intoxicating sense of purpose.

Had he been with anyone else, Sherlock would have been embarrassed at how quickly he came. It was lucky, he supposed, that he'd been _trying_ to give the impression he was both desperate and inexperienced.

It took a moment for him to get his breath back, panting heavily, still resting most of his weight on the teacher's broad shoulders. Gently, when he recovered, he slipped his legs off the other man's back.

"Thank you," he said, clearing his throat until his normal voice came back. "That was… not entirely what I was expecting."

Joseph Grieg left his head on Sherlock's lap. "Mmmn. I don't even want to know what you were _expecting._" He pressed a soft, suckling kiss on Sherlock's inner thigh before standing up, tucking himself neatly back into his trousers. Sherlock shimmied off the desk and yanked his pants back up. "Shall we… no-one would think it was strange if you came back upstairs with me. We could just… spend some time together."

Sherlock adjusted his tie and tucked his shirt back in. "No, thank you. This is sufficient," he said briskly.

Grieg stopped. "Sufficient? What… for what?"

He raised a condescending eyebrow. "I wanted to see how far you'd go. I didn't think you'd actually let it get that far, but I can't say I was disappointed. _Cuddling_, however, is entirely unnecessary."

The man gaped at him, his blue eyes clearing of their satisfied haze and turning to horror. "You _what?_"

"I noticed that you were attracted to me. I wanted to see how far you would let it go if you thought I wanted you back." He picked up the discarded Chemistry textbook and shoved it in his bag, the vulnerable persona he'd been affecting dropped in favour of his usual cool demeanour. "You were most… illuminating. It must be hard working with people you're attracted to but not allowed to touch. Knowing that most people would revile you if they found out about your fantasies."

Grieg's large hands clenched into fists. He took a deep breath. "Are you going to…"

"Tell anyone?" Sherlock finished for him. "No. There's nothing in it for me." Zipping up his bag, he slung it over his shoulder and straightened. "You were fantastic," he said as he turned to leave. "Thank you."

Through the window he'd sat on, out in the corridor, Sherlock could see Grieg sit back down behind his desk and pick up the essay again, massaging his temple, his blue eyes falling closed. He smirked.

Well, that had gone wonderfully.


	15. Chapter 12

_Oasis Swimming Pool, Bloomsbury, 1992_

"Whoever said chivalry is dead," Sophia remarked, grinning at John as he followed her off the bus and through the crowds towards the swimming pool, her swimming bag over his shoulder.

He smiled back. "They evidently didn't talk to my mother," he finished, hitching the bag higher on his shoulder. "It's not like it weighs anything. You should probably not let me into the changing rooms, though."

She giggled. "No – they wouldn't understand that you're too sweet to look at them in their underwear," she remarked, her hand trailing down his arm. John squeezed it when it linked with his, trapping her fingers between his own. "I can just imagine the Cuxton lot screaming."

It had been just over a week since their first interrupted 'date' and John liked her more and more with each passing discovery: she showed him her photography and design projects on Friday and tried baking chocolate-chip cookies with him on Monday evening (Jim had picked the lock to the kitchens after the catering staff had left). She was sweet, flattering and bold enough to laugh with him and make fun of his abysmal egg-beating skills, but her sense of humour wasn't built solely on the humiliation of others, like certain other people he knew. When he made that remark to Bill, the redhead had clutched his heart as though someone had speared him through the chest with an arrow. Jim had chuckled. "Yes, that was a hint," he'd quietly affirmed, his dark lips twisting into a smirk as the gangly older boy swatted at him.

They had managed to take the morning off school for the swimming sports; John had smiled sweetly at Mrs Roper and Bill had grinned insouciantly at Miss Whittle, the Media Studies teacher – and God only knew what Jim had done to the ancient, easily distracted and largely unpredictable History teacher – to excuse them from class and Bill's easy-going smile had earned them a seat each on the bus under the wryly amused eye of Mr O'Doherty.

John struggled to keep their hands joined as the swarm of people batted him this way and that. He'd been to the swimming sports last year when Bill was competing and it still surprised him the sheer _volume_ of people who turned up. The two of them fought their way to the women's changing rooms, John ducking under the arm of a teacher attempting to direct a few spectators to their seats.

Finally Sophia turned to him at the door of the changing room. "You should go and find a seat," she said, "it gets crowded really quickly."

"Yeah. Bill made some sort of joke about Jim having to sit on my knee, so we should probably try to avoid that." She giggled. "Although, I'd rather Jim than Bill. At least Jim doesn't _wriggle_." The giggle dissolved into a full-blown laugh and John couldn't contain the grin at having caused it.

He held out her bag; she took it, dropping their hands and smiling at him. "This is where you kiss me for luck, I think," she remarked, so casually John almost didn't realise.

"You… you think so?" John stuttered. He'd never liked the couples who blocked the hallways with their amorous activities, and he liked to take it slow with his girlfriends, keep it chaste in public. He and Sophia hadn't done more than hold hands and lean against each other; he knew she was surprised that he hadn't tried to kiss her yet.

Her smile widened. "I know I'd feel lucky if you did," she said. "But I'll get my luck another way if you don't want to. I understand it's not really the most romantic setting."

She was giving him an out, he realised; she thought he might _need_ an out. So, just to prove that he didn't have a problem with it, that the reason he hadn't kissed her had nothing to do with him not _wanting_ to kiss her, he leaned forwards and gently touched their lips together, flattered that she thought being kissed by him was _lucky._

For a moment their lips touched, and then John made to pull away, not wanting to pressure her despite the fact that the contact was sending frissons of _oh, that's nice_ down his spine. But Sophia's hand was suddenly in his hair, pulling him down and pressing them closer together, harder, her lips firm and parting beneath his.

Finally, she let him go; overwhelmed with the kiss, he took a moment before he could pull back and grin at her. She giggled. "Thanks," she said quietly, dipping her head to peck his lips again. "I feel much more confident now."

He grinned. "Really? Well, I've been told I have that effect on people…"

Giggling, she shoved at his chest. "All right. Off you go, go and find a seat."

So he walked off, the tips of his fingers buzzing pleasantly, his lips still twinging with the imagined pressure of another pair of lips against them, to find Bill and Jim.

The pool was so crowded that John, Jim and Bill had to squeeze themselves onto the end of a bench packed to bursting with the other people from Islington High who had elected to come along. Jim was indeed sitting half on John's lap and looking distinctly disgruntled about it; John wasn't terribly stoked either. The Irish kid's sit-bones were digging into his thigh. Bill sent them an amused look before shrugging slightly closer to them to stop his bottom from sliding off the bench.

At least it protected them from the cold, John supposed - the wind was brutal outside and the many decrepit doors to the pool did little to keep the warmth in. It certainly made him glad he wasn't competing. Sure, the water was probably a fair temperature, but the way Sophia was clutching herself on the sidelines, her goosebumps visible even from the other end of the building in her one-piece, didn't make him at all jealous.

He would have thought they could pick a better location for the greater London swimming sports, considering the range of schools that always showed up. He could barely imagine what it would be like for the people from the private schools such as Cuxton Grammar to come down here to support their friends. He could see a few of them, though, in their navy blazers with their hands primly folded in their laps, greeting each heat and winner with a polite round of golf-course applause. He caught Bill's eye and shared a small giggle at them.

The bruise on Jim's face had more or less faded, yellows and browns spreading down across one cheekbone. He was smiling now, looking out across the pool; John followed his eyeline and noticed he was grinning at a blond boy in Cuxton blue on the other side of the stands, who was shyly smiling back. John elbowed him. "Who are you eyeing up, eh?" he asked snidely. Jim elbowed him back, with rather more success considering their respective positions, swatting away the accusations. Bill chuckled.

"Girls, please," he threw at them. John laughed. Jim smiled in acknowledgement, but John noticed that his eyes went back to the blond as soon as Bill stopped looking at him.

Sophia looked up across the stands, her brown eyes searching; Bill noticed that John would have to dislodge the younger boy to move, so he stood up and waved his arms violently. John thought that she had a better chance of seeing the redhead anyway – he tended to stick out a bit more. When she noticed them and wiggled her fingers in a delightful smile, John lifted his own hand in a casual wave.

She lifted her hand and blew him a kiss. Bill wolf-whistled; John found himself grinning helplessly back at her as she slid into the pool with a fluid sort of grace that he completely envied. Jim shimmied across to Bill's lap looking disgruntled as John started up an anxious tapping of his foot. A balding teacher stepped forward and let out a sharp blast from some kind of horn, and they were off; Sophia's green swimsuit soared under the surface of the water, wriggling like a fish. He'd never really appreciated the beauty of a swimmer before, but then, he supposed, he'd never been emotionally invested in one like this before.

The race was a close one; all five swimmers moved with a speed and ease of movement John could barely comprehend. When they were about two-thirds down the pool, John actually stood up, cheering Sophie on at the top of his lungs, and he let out a monstrous whoop as she touched the end of the pool with delicate fingers a hand's width before the others. She surfaced grinning, her eyes searching him out immediately and laughing when she saw him, waving thumbs-up wildly in her direction. Bill laughed again.

The next race saw Carl Powers take a stance on the diving board, stretching out his broad chest and grinning boldly at the other competitors. Bill tutted. "Wouldn't it be just glorious if someone kicked his face in under there," he muttered. John sat down, swatting a hand in his direction and managing to catch him on the arm.

"Shut up, Bill," he said, the name drowned out by the horn blast signalling the start of the race and the consequent splashes as the swimmers dived into the water. Jim shifted his butt back onto John's lap as Bill wriggled uncomfortably.

And then, as Carl Powers was two metres from the end of the pool, he stopped in the water. John leaned forwards. "Hey," he said curiously. "What's happened to Carl?" Bill frowned at him; Jim didn't seem to hear. John elbowed him again. "Jim," he said loudly.

The Irish boy dragged his eyes away from the burly blond boy _again_ to look at him. "Hmm?" he said blankly. John nodded towards the pool.

"Carl Powers," he said. Jim adopted an expression of extreme distaste and looked over. "He just sort of – oh, my God."

Carl's body was jerking in the water, flailing uselessly as the boy struggled to control it enough to pull his head above the water and breathe. John stood up without thinking, dislodging Jim from his lap. "Oh, my God. He's having some kind of fit."

Bill reached out and grabbed John's arm before he could leap down the tiers. "You can't help," he said softly. "There are medics down there. Look. He'll be fine. You'll just get in the way."

Jim scowled up at him from the ground. "I'm going to the loo," he said boredly, collecting himself onto his feet and making to stalk off.

"I'm – you're – what? There's a boy you know in that pool having a fit and you're going to the _loo_?"

The Irish boy shrugged. "I have to go. It's not like he's somebody I _like_."

John stared at him as he stalked off down the tiers. Bill looked at him, nonplussed, but shook his head. "Let him go," he said. "Not everyone's like you. Powers punched him in the face a week ago, he doesn't have to care."

Teachers from all kinds of schools – John noticed their own Mr O'Doherty reaching out with a blond man so young John would almost assume he were a student to try and snatch Carl Powers' thrashing body out of the water. Bill's hand still clutching his wrist warningly, John slowly sat back in his seat. What could he do, after all? There were already too many people around the boy. The kid from Elmgreen High had won the race, but nobody seemed to care; all eyes in the building were fixed on the three teachers pulling Carl Powers from the pool, everyone in the vicinity soaked from the frantic splashes of his inert body.

"Look at Jim," Bill noticed suddenly. "The _cheek_ of that kid." John looked where he was pointing; Jim had taken the long way around the swimming pool and as John watched him, he idly flicked a neatly-folded paper dart at the blond boy as he walked past, disappearing into the men's changing rooms under the sign marked, 'DEEP END'. Had the circumstance been anything other than the fact someone's _life_ was in danger in front of them, he would have been amused at the usually anti-social – if never outright _shy_ – Irish boy's sudden boldness. In any other situation he might have laughed, might have said something along the lines of 'good on him'. But like him or not, John couldn't understand how he could be _flirting_ when Carl Powers' thrashing had subsided into shudders and the teachers grouped around him were exchanging terrified looks.

Jim's sheer _unconcernedness_ about the whole thing worried him. He was handling it almost as though… almost as though he'd been _expecting _it.

But that was stupid. John gave the idea that was lurking at the fringes of his mind a vicious shove out of the way and focussed his attention back on Carl Powers. His body was still, and the young blond teacher had leant over him, ear pressed to his bare chest. John looked at Bill and swallowed. Bill's bottle-green eyes were wide with worry.

The young teacher sat back on his heels and flexed his fingers out in front of him before beginning chest compressions. John and Bill exchanged another nervous glance. "He's not going to make it," Bill vocalised finally.

And indeed, it didn't look good. The blond teacher sat back and shook out his arms tiredly, biting his bottom lip. Mr O'Doherty leaned forwards, his hand over Carl's mouth to check if he was breathing. Slowly he, too, sat back. And then he shook his head.

"Oh, my God," breathed Bill. "John… he's dead."

John couldn't say anything, not even as the teachers surrounding the pool began shunting everyone out of the building, herding them onto the London pavement outside. Carl Powers, dead. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

They had been standing out in the wind for the better part of ten minutes before Jim sauntered up to them. "What did I miss?" he asked nonchalantly, eyeing the blond teacher, who was flapping his hands animatedly at someone in Cuxton blue.

And John snapped. "What did you _miss?_ Oh, nothing. Carl Powers only bloody _died_ while you were in the _loo_!"

Jim shrugged. "Did he? What a shame. How long do you think we'll have to wait for the bus?"

Bill stepped forwards as John felt his face turning red, but before either of them could do anything definitive a tiny hand on John's shoulder stopped him. Sophia stood behind them, a towel clutched around her shoulders as she shivered in the breeze. John shucked his jumper immediately and offered it to her. She took it gratefully.

"I can't believe it," she said softly. "I mean… I didn't _like_ the guy, but… I didn't think…"

John turned away from Jim's eerie half-smile to pull her into an awkward hug, trying to avoid the parts of her that were still damp from the pool. "No-one did. Just because he wasn't very nice didn't mean anyone actually wanted him _dead. _It was just a horrible accident."

Out of the corner of his eye, John thought Jim might have rolled his eyes. Bill, too, was still looking at the younger boy. "Jim," he said suddenly. "What have you got in your bag?"

The Irish kid's black backpack was bulging; John couldn't say whether it had been like that before. Jim looked up, his dark Irish eyes wide with innocence. "What do you mean? My jumper. I brought a raincoat too, it looked nasty."

Bill narrowed his eyes at him, but then shrugged. "Just curious as to what you might bring to something like this," he said finally.

John was less convinced, but he set himself to rubbing Sophia's arms to try and get some warmth back into them, and ignored the suspicions running through his mind until he could load Sophia onto a bus for the unnaturally hushed ride back to Islington.

But the next evening when he happened to glimpse Jim leaving school grounds through the front gate, John couldn't help but follow him.


	16. Third Interlude

_Kensington, London, 2004_

"And _stay_ out!"

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade rolled his eyes at the sound of his wife's shout, grabbed his coat, keys and wallet from the chair in the hallway and banged the front door of the flat closed against the continued shrieks of _if I never see you again it'll be too soon. _

He sighed. Trust the woman he'd married to cheat on him and somehow twist it into a personal slight _against_ her. Zipping his heavy coat to avoid the November winds, he set off down the street.

That's when he saw it. Outside the house two doors down from his, collapsed on the curb, was a young man.

Lestrade hurried over to him, checking for signs of epilepsy or life-threatening injury in case it would be better not to touch him but finding none, and hearing his knees crack in protest as he knelt and gently eased the man onto his back.

Before he'd got the promotion into the Homicide division, he'd been a street copper. When the man's eyes fluttered and half-opened from the new position and Lestrade caught a glimpse of his pupils, he swore and called an ambulance. He knew the signs of drug overdose when he saw them. Cocaine, by the looks of things.

He stayed until the ambulance turned up, and when the medic – a man named Kenny that Lestrade had had occasion to work with before – asked him if he wanted to ride with the invalid, he looked back at the door of his flat that his wife had closed on him and thought, why not.

If he had known who he'd just saved, maybe he wouldn't have gone.

It was two days before the man woke up in hospital, but they phoned Lestrade anyway and he went, half-mad with back pain from the sofa he'd been sleeping on in his sister's flat and the stress of trying to work through it. He took the bus because his wife still had the car, and as he approached reception to ask what room the overdose patient had just woken up in because the nurse who phoned hadn't left a name he _still_ didn't know quite what he was doing there. It wasn't the first addict he'd found dying on the street, and he'd never followed the others into hospital.

The man was only half-conscious when the receptionist managed to find out who the nurse had meant, zonked out in a bed with his eyelids fluttering. Lestrade picked up his chart to look at the name: _Sherlock Holmes_. It was a fancy name, and from the state of his chart and his bed someone was making sure he was well cared-for. Perhaps he was a rich kid rebelling against his parents.

He sat down in the plastic chair beside the bed and tentatively took the man's pale hand. At the touch, he tossed his head slightly and muttered something, the only word of which Lestrade could make out for certain was _John_. He frowned. The nurse had said that no-one else had phoned asking for the man or dropped by to visit him; who could _John_ be? A fellow cocaine addict, perhaps, a friend or a lover.

He sat with Sherlock Holmes for almost an hour before the man awoke; Scotland Yard called around halfway through that period and, to his own surprise, he told them he had had a family emergency and would need the rest of the day off. He was invested now, he reasoned to himself, and he wanted to know the man's story. After a further twenty minutes or so the hand in his twitched, then pulled away with a snatch as the man's eyes snapped open.

Lestrade sat back from the bed to give the man some space as he reeled slightly from the undoubtedly uncomfortable effects of surviving a cocaine overdose. Then Sherlock Holmes' eyes, a rather appealing shade of grey-green, fixed sharply on his own. "Who are you?" he croaked, wincing from the unexpected pain of a ravaged throat.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said calmly. "I'm the one who found you." Sherlock, his face angular with sunken, shadowed eyes from the drugs, frowned and turned away. Something pulled at Lestrade's heart. "Look, when you were asleep you said something about a John. If you have a number we can call him for you."

The man's face snapped back to his; too quickly, for Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment to recover from the disturbance in his head that the movement would have created. "_John?_" he breathed, sounding surprised. "No, I don't have a number. I'd rather you didn't call anyone."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Not family?"

Sherlock made a face. "God, no." After a few more deep breaths he heaved himself up into a sitting position and accepted a Styrofoam cup of water when Lestrade held it out to him. He took a sip and grimaced. "I was really talking about _John_? I haven't thought about him in years, but I suppose it fits." The cup drained, he tossed it over the side of the bed and looked Lestrade carefully up and down. "Why are you here?" he asked sharply. "What's a homicide detective doing hanging around the bedside of a drug addict he found when he was off-duty?"

"I don't know," Lestrade admitted, crossing his legs and leaning against the side of the bed. "They called me when you woke up and I – I – I never told you I was in homicide," he realised halfway through the sentence. "Or that I was off-duty when I found you."

Sherlock Holmes arched the brow above one hollow eye. "Or that your wife recently _came clean_ to you about the relationship she's been holding behind your back and evicted you from your own flat, or that you've been staying with your younger sister for the past two days."

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Um," he said coherently. "No, none of that."

"I notice things," Sherlock said, as though it were nothing. "Like, for example, the badge poking out of your top pocket. The corner is scuffed, which in itself is suggestive: you get it out a lot, which means you need to prove yourself to civilians. The line of policework which lends itself most to that is homicide investigation. But the scuffed corner makes the inside visible, and from there the conclusion is obvious. You're still wearing the wedding ring, but the mark is visible from where it usually sits on your finger, which means you've been playing with it a lot more than usual – the fact that you have a mark at all indicates that you don't play with it normally, so you've been thinking about your marriage. Your posture tells me you've been sleeping somewhere temporary, probably a sofa, and the residue of mashed banana you don't realise you have in your hair suggests the sofa of a young first-time mother. Sister was just a guess, but really there weren't too many people it could have been."

Slowly, Lestrade pulled his badge out of his pocket. He'd never looked at it like this before, but now that he was it was obvious; the corners were curling up and when it was lying almost flat one could just make out the end of the word _HOMICIDE _that couldn't really be anything else. "That's… do you do that all the time?"

Sherlock flapped a hand dismissively. "I can't help but notice things. I don't intend to offend people."

"You…" Slightly thrown, Lestrade cleared his throat. "You didn't offend me. You just stated facts. And let me know about the banana, which could have been embarrassing later on. It's just… do you realise what you could _do_ with this skill?"

The young man narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you working on the Camden Road murder?" he asked suddenly.

Not quite following, Lestrade nodded. Sherlock raised a hand to scratch agitatedly at his hairline. "I was there about five days ago. There was a piece of tweed caught in the tree overhanging the place where the body was found. I analysed it in the lab. It's high quality fabric, and tweed isn't something you find in department stores with the current fashion. There are only two tailors in Saville Row who use that kind of weave in their fabrics. If you take it in to them they should be able to give you a list of customers, and I wouldn't think it would be very long."

Lestrade gaped. "And you did that when you were high?" he asked incredulously. "_Christ,_ imagine what you could do sober."

Sherlock Holmes bit his lip, suddenly looking unsure. "I'm not sure I could do _anything_ sober," he said quietly. "My mind doesn't work properly."

"I could help," Lestrade said, wondering as it was coming out of his mouth quite what he was signing up to, visions of the young man vomiting on his floor and occupying all of his attention floating to mind. "Once you're through withdrawal it'll be easier."

Sherlock frowned. "You'd do that?" he asked. Lestrade wasn't sure why, but he nodded. A slow, shy sort of a smile spread across the emaciated face. "Why?"

"I think the MET would almost owe it to you if that lead on the Camden Road killer comes through," he said lightly. "You have a talent, and I'd like to see what it could do without cocaine holding it back."

That, he consoled himself, was reason enough, and he said nothing about the odd paternal feeling that had flooded him when the man had told him he'd rather nobody collected him. When he made to leave after securing the name of the attendant at St Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital who could give him the piece of tweed, a thought struck him and he turned back. "Don't… don't answer this if it's too personal, but… who _is_ John?"

He'd half-expected the young man's face to close off, or look sad, but Sherlock Holmes merely smiled. "Oh," he said, sounding tired. "Just… just a fantasy, I suppose."

For the next six years of their acquaintance, the mysterious _John_ that had been mentioned when they first met didn't come up again.


	17. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: **The newspaper article in this chapter is taken directly from _Sherlock: The Casebook_, published by the creators of the _Sherlockology_ website. Except that I changed the pool and school name because I only found the article once I'd set up the details on my own.

* * *

><p><em>Cuxton Grammar School, 1992<em>

"Have you seen the newspaper this morning, _cheri_?"

Sherlock looked up from his toast and apricot jam and across at Julien, delicately picking at a soft-boiled egg on the other side of their small table. He raised an eyebrow at him; since Julien had the newspaper, and the two of them had left Sherlock's room for breakfast together, the probability of Sherlock having read the article the French boy was referring to was so slim that he needn't have spoken.

Julien smiled thinly. "The death of that Islington boy is in the front section. At the swimming races yesterday."

He returned a bored expression. He had heard about the incident, of course; the students that had been selected to attend the competition had returned early and babbling with gossip. One of the boys from Islington High had suffered from some sort of fit while swimming and the competition had been cancelled when they discovered he had died. He had been vaguely interested, but there did not seem to be any indication of foul play and the stirrings of interest had faded.

"Boring," he pronounced, finishing his toast with a flourish. Julien smiled again and handed over the paper, turning his full attention to the intricate process of politely eating egg and toast. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The article was on page three of the paper, a small article with a head-and-shoulders shot of the boy – _Carl Powers_, Sherlock saw – underneath the headline.

_TRAGEDY AT SCHOOL SWIMMING TOURNAMENT_

_Tragedy hit a school swimming tournament being held at the Oasis Swimming Pool in Bloomsbury yesterday. Pupils from twelve different schools were competing for the Tony Higgins Cup, a national competition founded twelve years ago and designed to reward excellence in youth sports. _

_Carl Powers, a pupil from Islington High School, was a favourite to win in the 1000 metres Freestyle but suffered an unspecified fit halfway through the race. By the time medical staff had taken him from the water and attempted to assist him it was too late. Staff at the Oasis Swimming Pool have insisted that there was no negligence on the part of either themselves or the event organisers though an enquiry will naturally take place. Mr Powers' trousers, shirt and underwear have been found in a locker in the changing-rooms, and no malicious intent is suspected at this time._

"I want to go and see," Sherlock said suddenly.

Julien looked up from the last scrapings of egg. "Pardon me?" he asked politely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "_Carl Powers_. The swimming pool. I want to go and see. Something's not right."

The French boy's thin lips curled upwards into a lazy smile. "I thought it was _boring_, _cheri_," he teased. Sherlock frowned at the endearment; Julien had been using it more and more in the few days since he had found him flirting with Wilkes and defected, in turn, to Mr Grieg. He hoped the other boy wasn't regretting the decision, wasn't developing _feelings_. That would ruin everything.

"It was," Sherlock said simply. "But this article – they found all of the boy's clothes in a locker in the changing room, but not his shoes. If it was just an accident, what happened to his shoes?"

Julien spread his hands in smug submission. "I would not know," he said, smirking. "Very well, then. You go and _investigate_, Monsieur Dupin."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the moniker. He was more intelligent than Poe's Auguste Dupin. Joe Grieg had called him that before and he couldn't help but find it slightly insulting, despite the fact that he knew they were trying to compliment him. Apparently nobody had written a clever enough detective character to compare him to. It was almost depressing. "You don't want to come with me?"

"I do not share your appreciation for the criminal," Julien explained. "Nor your attitude towards missing classes."

Sherlock shrugged. It was only Chemistry and Plant Biology he would be missing, and he knew all the coursework anyway. This swimming pool incident sounded much more interesting. Sherlock looked at the picture: the boy was immaculately dressed in the formal uniform that Islington High did not insist on but provided for its representatives, not a hair out of place. He didn't look like the kind of boy that would keep his shoes somewhere apart from his clothes. He wanted to go and see, to go and have a look around the swimming pool and the changing room, and the sooner he could go the better. He couldn't afford to wait for the weekend, or the pool staff would have re-opened it and cleaned everything away. "Suit yourself," he said, pushing his chair away from the table. Julien's piercing green eyes followed him out of the room.

He caught the bus to Bloomsbury, standing awkwardly by the back door with his clothed arm looped awkwardly around the railing to avoid prolonged contact on his bare skin. Sherlock wasn't terribly worried about germs, but that didn't mean that he wanted to rub himself up against the other people in the bus, to touch the places where so many hands had been for too long.

The bus stopped two streets away from the swimming pool, so he didn't have to stop and ask for directions. Sherlock eyed the people as they walked past him anyway, gauging which would be most helpful and least irritating just in case.

Outside the door to the pool – _small, run-down building, interesting place to hold a prestigious swimming competition _– stood at attention an older man, his hairline receding dramatically, dressed in a white shirt and slacks that displayed his paunch to some disadvantage but quite obviously some kind of policeman.

Sherlock approached him cautiously. "Excuse me," he said, being carefully polite. He had questions, after all.

The policeman looked at him, dark and piggish eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What do you want?" he asked. Sherlock cursed inwardly; the man wasn't quite as stupid as he looked, and it was unlikely Sherlock could worm his way inside just by claiming childish curiousity.

"I was just wondering… this is where the boy died yesterday, isn't it?" he asked, pitching his voice up a bit, trying to make himself sound younger, more naïve. He thought suddenly that this tactic was going to stop working fairly soon.

The man frowned at him. "Yeah," he said shortly. "The building's under police control, I can't let you in."

Sherlock cleared his throat in an affectation of nerves. "I… um, Carl, he was a friend of mine, and I just wondered… have his clothes and stuff been released? I heard his mum wanted to burn them, but I wanted to save his shoes? He really liked them."

He held his breath, waiting for an answer: it was possible the officer would agree, or mention a description of the shoes, in which case it could be put down to poor wording from whoever wrote the article and he would go home. Or… "We don't have the shoes," the policeman grunted.

"You mean they're with his mum already? Damn. We thought he might like to be buried with them, you know –"

"No," the policeman interrupted. "We never had them. They weren't in the changing room."

Sherlock put on a heavy frown. "Well, where are they, then?" he asked petulantly.

The policeman looked irritated. "I don't know where they are," he said briskly. "They weren't at the scene."

His mind thrummed with excitement; it seemed that the incident _was_ suspicious and seemed far more interesting than the article had made out. "Don't you think that's suspicious?" he asked the policeman. "He wouldn't turn up to a swimming competition without shoes, especially if he's travelled from Islington. He _must_ have had shoes when he came here. So why aren't there any now?"

Thoroughly fed up now, the policeman shifted from foot to foot. "I don't know, someone could have taken them by accident? Or someone like you, a friend, maybe."

Sherlock shook his head. It didn't seem right. People were always eager to put shoes on after leaving the swimming pool to avoid getting wet feet, so how could they take away a pair that wasn't theirs by accident? And it was highly unlikely that someone whose friend had just had a fit and died would think to grab his shoes. "_Or,_" he supplied impatiently, "someone took them because they would have been incriminating."

"You think it was murder?" The policeman sounded wholly incredulous. "_You?_ You're what, sixteen?"

He rolled his eyes. "Seventeen," he corrected, but he knew it wouldn't make a difference. "And I'm not saying it _was_ murder, just that you should be _investigating_ it. At least trying to track down the shoes."

The balding policeman held up a hand crossly. "The police has it under control, kid," he growled. "Clear off or I'll have you for interfering with a police investigation."

"But the police _aren't_ investigating," Sherlock protested hotly. "You're just standing here stopping anyone _else _from trying to catch the murderer!"

A twitch of the policeman's clenched fist warned Sherlock to take a step backwards and shut up. "Fine," he said after a pause. "I'm going. Wouldn't want to face the wrath of the London Metropolitan Police."

So he walked casually right around the block and picked the lock on the pool's back door.

It was the staff entrance, invisible unless you were looking for it, down a tiny pedestrian alleyway squeezed between an electrician's and a boutique soap shop. Sherlock had carefully circled the block until he was certain he was parallel to the pool and then ventured down the nearest alley until he came to the open space required around the pool building so that the damp wouldn't spread.

Quietly – if he made too much noise the now-irate policeman out front would hear him and sprint back to find him and probably arrest him. Not that they'd be able to charge him, but the school would get Mycroft involved if he had to be collected from Scotland Yard again – he fished the bent nail-file he'd been using as a lock-pick for almost a year out of his jacket pocket and started on the lock.

The door wasn't particularly sturdy, and Sherlock couldn't blame the pool owners for not reinforcing the lock further when he saw the inside of the pool. Why anyone in their right mind would want to break in there was beyond him.

He wasn't alone, though, he noticed; he froze in surprise at the two boys about his own age sitting in the stands around the pool, the smaller one comfortably crossing one ankle over the other knee, the taller of the two looking painfully awkward. Sherlock wondered why anyone would choose _here_ for an illicit hookup.

Then the taller boy looked up, all blond hair and blue eyes that caught on Sherlock's and narrowed in immediate dislike. Sherlock blinked in shock. _Sebastian_. The burly blond from his floor – when Sherlock had accused him of being secretly gay, he hadn't expected him to actually act on it. And yet – he had been at the swimming competition the day before, he must have met this boy there and arranged to meet again today, when they knew the place would be deserted. Such cavalier ignorance of respect for the dead twisted Sherlock's face into a reluctant wry smile. If that had been Sebastian's idea – but no, the boy didn't have that much imagination.

He nodded briefly at the bigger boy, then turned and slipped through the doorway beside the sign declaring _Men's Showers Only._

The changing room was dark; Sherlock fumbled around for a lightswitch for a moment before deciding that there must be a master switch in the reception and giving up, squinting as his eyes adjusted.

Carl Powers' clothes were indeed still in the cubbyhole where he had doubtless left them; Sherlock smirked at the ineptitude of the police. Why were they monitoring the building if they weren't going to mount _any_ kind of investigation? They were obviously just trying to make it look like they were doing something.

He started by searching the room thoroughly for the shoes. Judging by the rest of the clothes – a white t-shirt and a branded pair of trackpants – he was looking for sneakers, probably white, most likely in the big style that was apparently fashionable. After he was confident that the shoes weren't in the changing room, he started on the clothes.

The shirt sported a fairly predictable sporting logo – _both items fairly well-known brands and in the current fashion. No problems with family money. Likes to show off to friends, almost definitely the leader of his little 'clique' due to his apparent sporting prowess. _Sherlock dismissed the rolled-up navy-blue briefs with a wrinkle of his nose –

There was a crash behind him, a muffled _oh!_ of surprise. Sherlock spun around to see a short and stocky teenager with dirty-blond hair and tanned skin staring at him under a window he had quite plainly just tumbled out of, his thin lips hanging open in surprise. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him.

"I – you're not supposed to be in here," the blond said in an accusatory tone of voice.

Sherlock gave him a quick once-over to check that he wasn't pool staff – unlikely, given his chosen method of entry - then folded his arms. "Neither are you," he said coolly.

To his surprise, the boy grinned, seeming to recover from his shock. "All right, you got me there," he said. "I was just hiding from someone. It's so dark in here I couldn't see where I'd land."

The boy's smile was merry and genuine, and Sherlock wasn't sure he'd seen anything quite like it. He stepped away from the locker, towards the stranger, extending a hand politely. "Sherlock Holmes," he introduced.

The blond boy laughed a little – probably at his manner, Sherlock decided, being distinctly lower-class; he knew people on the street thought the Cuxton way of doing things was unnecessarily pompous and arrogant – and clapped a hand good-naturedly into his.

"John Watson," he replied. "Pleased to meet you."


	18. Chapter 14

_Oasis Swimming Pool, 1992_

John followed Jim all the way to the swimming pool they'd visited the day before, his skin crawling as it became clear that this was where they were headed. _Back to the scene of the crime,_ a voice in his head insisted. John tried to shut it up, but it was very insistent; what _else_ might Jim be doing at the place where the boy who'd made his life hell had died?

He'd been at something of a loss when the back door of the pool had swung closed behind the Irish boy. He couldn't exactly just barge in and reveal that he suspected the boy he had tried so hard to befriend of murder. But having come all of this way, he desperately wanted to see what Jim was doing in there.

He'd compromised by finding a low window and peering through it; he could only just see Jim's denim-clad calves and neat black shoes wandering casually past the window.

John had scrambled around looking for a higher window, but stumbled upon an open window to the men's changing-room instead. Jim's feet had travelled right past the window, so John had thrown caution to the wind and the window open, scrambling through it to tumble artlessly onto a bench underneath, gasping slightly on impact.

Now he was staring at a tall, pompous-looking boy with lush dark curls tumbling around high, aristocratic cheekbones, trying not to laugh at the contrast between _Sherlock_, as he had introduced himself with a polite handshake from underneath a Cuxton blazer, and the dark, dingy atmosphere of the otherwise-deserted swimming pool changing-room.

"Whom were you hiding from?" _Sherlock_ asked, tilting his head to one side curiously.

John glanced towards the door. There really wasn't a way to phrase it that sounded good. "A… friend," he said finally. "I noticed him bunking off school and just wondered where he was going. It's… difficult to explain, it sounds really weird when I just say it like that."

Sherlock Holmes nodded. "You suspected he might have been involved in Carl Powers' death yesterday."

John gaped at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, it's not a difficult chain of reasoning. Otherwise it'd be entirely out of line to follow a _friend_ out of school like this. I can put your mind at rest, though – if you're looking for the small boy in the purple shirt, he's seducing an acquaintance of mine, not looking for trophies from a murder scene or whatever you thought he might be doing here. And said acquaintance doesn't have the brains to be a murder accomplice."

_Seducing an acquaintance of mine_. John nodded as things fell together in his mind. "Big blond boy, this acquaintance?" he asked. One corner of the posh boy's full, cupid's-bow lips twitched upwards as he nodded. "Great. I followed him halfway across London to see him hitting on some posh hunk." He sighed. "Good thinking, though," he had to add. "They won't get interrupted here."

Sherlock chuckled – a sound that went right down John's spine, low and sultry and warm. "I don't know," he said, shifting so that he was leaning against the panel of hooks behind him. "For a restricted crime-scene, this place seems to be quite the thoroughfare."

John eyed him suspiciously. The way he was leaning against the panel behind him had made his blazer slip away from his chest, and John could see the curve of his collarbone through the open top buttons of his too-big white shirt. He had the air of a boy who had grown taller and slimmer in a short space of time and had not yet purchased clothes to fit his new figure, but it was still startlingly obvious how good-looking he was underneath the ill-fitting uniform. John swallowed. Since when did his throat dry up at the tiniest hint of milky-white collarbone under a boy's shirt? That was disconcerting, to say the least. He'd never – he didn't – he wasn't _gay._

"Why are _you_ here?" he asked instead.

Sherlock Holmes shifted uncomfortably, then moved to sit down next to where John was standing and pat the bench beside him, inviting John to do the same. John did so. "I saw the article in the paper this morning about Carl Powers," he said, his deep voice matter-of-fact. "The article mentioned that his clothes were in his locker but it didn't say anything about the shoes. I came to see whether they'd just forgotten about them, but it doesn't look like they have."

John frowned at him. "Are Carl Powers' shoes of personal interest to you?" he asked.

The taller boy rolled his impressive green-grey eyes. "Well, the fact that they're not here means that someone must have taken them. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out, so I came to see if the police were still insisting it was an accident even though the missing shoes point to murder."

John blinked. "Missing shoes immediately mean murder?" he repeated. He didn't really see the link, despite it being weird that the shoes hadn't been there.

"_Yes_," Sherlock huffed, as though this was the thousandth time he was being asked that question. "This is a swimming pool, no-one goes in or out without shoes. Even in the ensuing panic after Powers' death, no-one could have accidentally grabbed the wrong shoes and even if they had, there'd be an extra pair of shoes lying around. The only reason someone would take his shoes on purpose was if they were incriminating, or as some sort of memoir from the crime."

"How could shoes be incriminating?" John asked, still not buying the argument – even if he had to admit that it made more sense than he would ever have come up with on his own.

Sherlock made another impatient noise. "He had a fit underwater. That suggests poison. Could have been transmitted through touch, administered when he tied the laces on his shoes."

There was a pause while John thought about this. Again, it made a lot of sense, but wasn't a conclusion John felt like he could have come up with on his own. "That's… um… that makes sense."

"Yes," Sherlock said archly. "Well, since I've satisfied my curiosity, the policeman outside refuses to listen to me, and you've ascertained that your friend isn't here to gloat over the scene of his crime, we should probably get out of here."

He stood up, but John grabbed his sleeve and tugged him back down. Apparently unused to being manhandled like this, Sherlock Holmes sat back down abruptly, looking at John with wide, surprised eyes. John's mouth began drying out again in a most disturbing manner. "Wait," he said belatedly. "I'm interested now. Do you do this often? Find crimes in the paper that don't quite match up and then… investigate them? Talk to the police?"

There went Sherlock's eyes again, rolling around like cartwheels. "Well, I _would_, but the police never listen to me. Apparently the word of a seventeen year-old isn't worth anything to them."

"It shouldn't matter how old you are if your ideas are brilliant," John argued. "I mean – what does it matter where the solution _comes_ from as long as they've got one?"

Sherlock snorted. "Clearly you overestimate the nobility of the Metropolitan Police," he said scathingly. John made a face. Sherlock, however, sat stiffly for a moment as though struggling with himself before saying, "Do you really think the idea was brilliant?"

"Of course," John said, hiding the little amused smile at the look on the taller boy's face. Apparently he didn't get compliments very often. "It's not something just anyone could come up with, it was really clever and observant."

John felt an odd kind of warmth bloom in his stomach as Sherlock shifted in his seat to face John properly, now looking at him with a slightly puzzled but very definitely interested expression. "No-one's ever said that to me before," he said, frowning.

"What do they call it, then?" John asked. He was a little surprised that nobody had ever complimented the boy before, but his completely flattered surprise was amusing to watch.

Sherlock made a face. "Annoying. Invasive. Rude. Although, that's usually when I'm making observations about _them_."

John lifted an eyebrow. "About them? Like what?"

He watched as the taller boy's grey-green eyes scanned him up and down. "Like your rebellious older sibling, your family's financial problems, your ambition to become a doctor through the military or possibly your secret hope that you'll get called to service," he said succinctly. John's jaw hit the floor.

"You – you can tell all of that from _looking_ at me?" he asked, dumbfounded. He hadn't told _anyone_ that he'd been thinking recently that he wouldn't mind at all if he did get called to serve with the military after becoming a doctor. Sherlock made an expression as though he didn't particularly care, but John noticed that he continued to watch his face intently for signs of approval. Signs, of course, which John was more than happy to give. "That's _amazing!_"

Sherlock shifted, the flattered smile widening. "Elementary," he dismissed self-consciously. "It's written all over your body, in your clothes and your posture and the way you style your hair, it's just that nobody ever _looks_."

John shrugged. "I think it's incredible," he reiterated. "However you spin it, not everybody could do it."

The pause this time was laden with something John wasn't sure he wanted to identify; Sherlock was looking at him as though he were the most incredible thing in the world and he thought he might actually be _blushing_. "Thank you," the taller boy said slowly, as though the words had never passed his lips before. John shrugged, grinning. "And you?" Sherlock asked. "Have you always wanted to be a doctor?"

"Yeah," John replied cheerfully. "With my parents' financial situation I could never get through med school on my own. And I don't care about called to serve – I want to help people, and the front line's probably where they'll need help the most."

Sherlock was still watching him like he'd been nominated for an Oscar. "That's… I mean… that's… admirable," he said, after an extraordinarily long pause wherein John wondered if he were struggling for any positive word at all to describe it.

He shrugged. "Well, you want to help people too, with your… detective skills."

The taller boy shook his head dismissively. "I want to be a detective because I think it'd be interesting, not because I want to _help_," he said, as though _helping_ were a deplorable idea. "I really do think that your willingness to fight so that you can help people is remarkably brave."

John was definitely blushing now. "Oh, well –"

And then Sherlock Holmes was kissing him.

He'd considered the idea that he might be bisexual before. Occasionally he had stumbled upon a man who had inspired a swooping feeling in his stomach that he associated with attractive women, but they were always men that he admired as _people_, men he'd like to sit down and have day-long conversations with, rather than people he thought of for their looks and sensuality alone, and so he'd dismissed the idea, decided once and for all that while he was completely open to the idea of bisexuality he was himself entirely straight.

Perhaps – well, _definitely_ – he'd been a little hasty.

Sherlock's lips were soft and shy against his own, and his large hands crept timidly up John's jacket front to tangle in his collar as the nervous huffs of breath from his nose swept across John's cheeks. For a moment John considered pulling away – it was too fast, he'd only met the other boy a few minutes ago, before which he'd been _straight_, and Sherlock wasn't exactly giving off the impression of a boy who knew exactly what he was doing – but there was something swelling in his chest like it had just been born, and instead he found himself clutching onto a pale, bony shoulder and pressing back.

"Wait," he said eventually, reversing his grip on Sherlock's shoulder and gently coaxing him away. "Wait, stop."

Sherlock looked down at him with wide green-grey eyes, his pupils blown wide. John thought he saw a flash of something that might have been _impatience_ before it was tampered down into polite curiosity. "Are you… I mean… have you done this before? You seem a bit… nervous?"

The curly-haired teen quirked half a smile. "I assure you, John, I have more experience with kissing men than you do. What I am unfamiliar with is the desire to kiss them before they express desire themselves. But you… I wasn't sure whether you would kiss me back, so I went slowly."

Flattered, John leaned forwards and kissed him again. Sherlock used a more formal way of speaking than he did – came with the Cuxton uniform, John thought – but he'd managed to decipher the meaning in his words. It sounded like Sherlock was saying he'd never _wanted_ anyone without knowing that they wanted him, and for John to be the first – with Sherlock looking like he did, with those eyes and that hair and those delightful cheekbones – was unbelievably flattering.

This time, certain that John wanted the kiss, Sherlock took control. He wasn't kidding about having more experience with it than John did; John had _never_ experienced the level of commanding sensuality that Sherlock was pouring into the kiss, like he needed to drink John in through every pore in his body to survive. Sherlock's tongue flicked at his lips, so he parted them; immediately, Sherlock's strong fingers were cupping his jaw as his tongue swept through John's mouth like there was something hidden in it that he desperately needed to find.

John melted and solidified simultaneously under the onslaught; lost himself in it and discovered new parts of himself. Kissing Sherlock was nothing at all like kissing the girls he'd been with; then, he had been cautious, gentle, in control because he had wanted to take care of them. Now Sherlock was refusing to let him be any of those things and something electric was sparking inside him. Sherlock Holmes was something different, something breathtaking, something _new._

"John," he murmured against John's cheek as they broke millimetres apart to breathe, Sherlock's long fingers now sliding down the length of his neck and dipping under the collar of his shirt. "John, I want…"

But he could not seem to vocalise what it was he wanted, or perhaps that _was_ the end of the sentence; John identified with him, if that was the case. _I want, I want, I want_ was bouncing around his own brain in Sherlock's deep, sensual baritone.

"I know," he replied, pulling away just far enough to look into green-grey eyes and smile, weak and bewildered. "Me too."

Close to, Sherlock looked frantic and confused. "I don't understand –"

"Shh," John cut him off, placing a finger over his lips. They parted underneath it as Sherlock made an odd noise, the words stopping dead in his throat. "I don't think we're supposed to," he told the taller boy.

Sherlock looked as though _not understanding _wasn't something he did often. It almost made John laugh; Sherlock was so intelligent, he immediately struck John as someone who had put aside personal relationships for his study. John wondered if he had anyone he called a _friend_ at all; he reached up to stroke a rogue lock of dark hair away from Sherlock's forehead. "You're brilliant," he said quietly.

"You hardly know anything about me," Sherlock replied, a tiny frown furrowing his sweeping eyebrows, his lips wet against John's finger that he hadn't removed. He shifted it now, trailing it down Sherlock's chin.

"I know enough."

The Cuxton boy gaped at him. "Oh, John," he whispered as though he could not help himself. And then they were kissing again; this time John wrestled for control of the kiss, and Sherlock gave it up with surprising ease.

It wasn't quite _pity_, this sudden thing that John felt for Sherlock; it was more like _humility_, that Sherlock didn't _have _personal relationships and yet here he was, kissing a stranger he'd met barely half an hour ago and somehow it wasn't an empty kiss but something heavy with meaning, even if John wasn't sure what that meaning was.

Sherlock sank back into the cold concrete of the wall behind him, his fingers tugging at John's jacket to keep their mouths and bodies together; John took the hint and shifted onto one knee, hovering awkwardly over the taller boy, letting his hands fall onto Sherlock's chest to prop him up. When he pulled away this time, Sherlock was panting, his throat undulating with each breath. John's eyes automatically gravitated towards the pale column of flesh; without putting too much thought into it, he leaned forwards and sank his teeth into it.

The dark-haired teen gasped, and a deep, urgent sound ripped out of his throat. John chuckled as he licked the indents of his teeth in Sherlock's skin and raised a hand to try and loosen Sherlock's grip on his collar. "John," Sherlock rumbled, shifting his fingers to the back of John's neck and trying to guide his head back up, "John, I need –"

John made an embarrassing sort of squeaking noise when Sherlock suddenly grabbed his waist and tugged him over until he was sprawled on the taller boy's lap, a very _male_ erection pressed up against his own.

It was alien, certainly, but not a _bad_ sort of alien. It was hot and solid and an entirely different type of friction than John had ever felt before; it was glorious and raw and John could feel his fingers shaking as he held himself steady with his hands on Sherlock's slim torso.

Sherlock grabbed the back of John's head and pulled it down into another rough kiss, their teeth clacking painfully together, long fingers dragging through the hair at the nape of his neck. John whimpered, his fingers curling automatically, bunching the fabric of Sherlock's shirt – not cotton, he thought, something more expensive. The boy had the exotic look of someone born into money, but he wore it well; so many of the Cuxton students that John had seen at the pool yesterday simply seemed snobbish. Sherlock wore the wealth he had inherited as though it really did not matter.

He was making noises, now, tiny little whimpers like a cat that made John's heart flutter as he shifted to thrust his hips up towards him, grinding them desperately together. "_John_," he gasped in the minute gap between their lips as they parted to crash together again like waves breaking against rocks. Sherlock tasted of sweetened coffee and a tiny, homely hint of toast; their tongues slid together in the same frantic, thrusting rhythm as their hips.

"_Sherlock_," he panted back, letting his hands play back up the taller boy's torso, his fingernails flicking accidentally over Sherlock's right nipple. John was almost surprised when the other boy shuddered at the sensation; he'd been led to believe it was mostly women's nipples that were sensitive. Experimentally, he reached up to tweak his own and noted the tiny frisson of sensation down between his legs.

Sherlock noticed it too, and let out another rumbling baritone chuckle. "Never tried that before?" he asked, his deep voice rich with amusement like the taste of his mouth. "Like this," he advised, catching John's finger between his own and bringing it to his own lips; John drew his breath in sharply as his index finger slid between Sherlock's lush lips to be encased in wet warmth and gentle suction.

The boy drew John's finger down and reached with it underneath his t-shirt to draw wet circles around John's nipple, occasionally descending to flick across the nub, sending sparks through John's groin and making him rock his hips down faster.

Without warning, Sherlock dropped John's fingers and pinched his nipple hard. _"Sherlock!_" John gasped, throwing the hand that wasn't half up his own shirt across his mouth to stifle the sound as his hips drove down rather more violently than he'd intended and Sherlock let out a muffled moan. The last thing he wanted was for Jim and his blond beau to hear the noise and wander in; John didn't want to imagine what the two of them must look like from a distance, rutting against each other, too desperate to wait for a better time or place. He felt overwhelmed, completely unable to stop, like a sprinter heading for a crash. Sherlock's fingers were still playing with his nipples, rolling and twisting them, so John reached out and scraped his fingernails across the dark-haired boy's in return, eliciting another moan and a more drawn-out thrust.

He was hurtling almost startlingly fast towards climax; somewhere, he gained the presence of mind to think about the state of his pants. "Sherlock," he muttered, worming his fingers into the curls and tugging slightly to try and separate their mouths. It backfired; apparently Sherlock liked having his hair pulled, because he moaned again and pressed their mouths together even harder. "_Sherlock," _he repeated. "We have to… we can't… I don't want to go halfway across London back to school having just come in my pants."

Sherlock blinked a few times, as though John had dazed him. Then he chuckled again. "No," he said lowly, his fingers reluctantly sliding out of John's shirt. "No, I suppose not."

That decided, Sherlock shifted his fingers abruptly to the button on John's jeans. John followed suit, returning his mouth to the still-visible bite-mark on Sherlock's neck as his fingers attempted to learn the hook-and-eye fastenings of Sherlock's neat black trousers. John muffled the groan in Sherlock's smooth, pale neck as his long fingers delved into his briefs and wrapped delicately around the heat of his prick.

Sherlock made no such attempt to muffle his drawn-out whine of, _John_, when John returned the favour, guiding Sherlock out of his tight black pants and stroking him gently. John touched a finger to his lush lips, pressing a kiss to his prominent cheekbone. "Shh," he whispered. "The policeman outside might hear."

"That _would_ be an unwelcome interruption," the taller boy drawled lazily, dancing his fingers up John's length in a way he had never bothered to touch himself. He was quickly realising that there was an entire _world_ of sexual pleasure he had never explored; John generally touched himself with the express purpose of getting off, he rarely toyed around with his pleasure beforehand. Sherlock, apparently, was practised at teasing, at building up the pressure until he – or his partner, John supposed, though he wasn't sure he wanted to think about the _other_ people Sherlock had done this with – was teetering on the edge, desperate for release.

"Here," Sherlock said after a minute of John's awkward stroking. It was difficult even to touch the other boy the way that he would touch himself with the angle so different. Sherlock drew his hand away gently and used his own to grasp the two of them _together_ and took one long, languid pull. John whimpered, biting his lip desperately, and copied Sherlock's grip so that their hands formed a tight tunnel, stroking them in tandem.

His hips began to rock forwards again, but this time the heat and pressure of Sherlock was there with him, rocketing him closer to the brink; Sherlock moaned brokenly, his own teeth making an appearance over his bottom lip to keep the noise in, and then they were thrusting against each other, rubbing together, the smooth skin of their heads sliding together on every upstroke and making John struggle not to cry out, he was _so close_ –

"Sherlock," he panted, "our clothes – we're going to –"

Expertly, with his free hand, Sherlock fished a blue handkerchief out of his blazer pocket and held it over them, panting hard, his chin bumping John's as their lips sought each other again. Satisfied that he wasn't going to have to walk through London with come on his shirt, John tore their mouths apart to bury his in Sherlock's shoulder and bite down again.

Sherlock tried valiantly to hold back the noise tearing out of his throat as his free hand clenched against John's back and his cock pulsed and spurted into the handkerchief, throwing his head back and dislodging John's teeth from his neck.

John bit off his own choked cry as he came, clutching onto Sherlock as tightly as he could.

It seemed to last forever, until John was sure he would pass out, but soon enough he had collapsed, panting desperately into Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the taller boy's slim chest rub against him as they breathed together. After a moment, he coughed and awkwardly climbed off Sherlock's lap and spread himself over the bench beside him.

To his surprise, Sherlock sniffed and curled catlike into him, throwing his legs over John's lap and burying his head in his armpit. Slightly bewildered, John rubbed his fingers through Sherlock's curls. He hadn't expected the Cuxton boy to want to be close to him after it was over. This seemed almost _normal_, post-coital cuddling like any other couple. John wound an arm around Sherlock and smiled to himself.

"Do you… are you allowed into town in the weekends at Cuxton?" John ventured timidly after a few minutes of listening to the gradual slowing of their breaths and his own frantic heartbeat.

Sherlock's head shifted, his nose twitching into John's underarm and breathing in the surely unpleasant scent there. "Yes," he said quietly, his voice vibrating through John's clothes.

John hesitated. Surely Sherlock – intelligent as he had proven himself at drawing conclusions – had understood the question beneath the one he had asked. But a simple 'yes' wasn't particularly encouraging. But then, he reasoned, Sherlock _could_ have said 'no'. "Do you want to get coffee with me this weekend?" he asked, childishly holding his breath for the answer. "Or lunch, or… a movie, or something?"

There was a pause; holding his breath began to get uncomfortable and John started to panic. "I think I'd like that," Sherlock said finally, sounding perplexed at the thought.

"Okay," John said quickly, relieved. "We could meet… say, Saturday, 11 o'clock, at… where's good for you?"

Sherlock sat up, his face suddenly business-like. "We could meet somewhere halfway between us? Finsbury, say, or King's Cross?"

John shook his head. "If I'm going out, I might as well go all the way into London – my aunt lives near Covent Garden and she always says I should visit more."

A tiny, shy smile crept across Sherlock's face that made John's stomach twist. It seemed strange that he was this attached to Sherlock after knowing him for just over an hour. "All right," Sherlock said. "I'll meet you at the British Museum at eleven on Saturday."

The taller boy straightened his shirt and re-fastened his trousers; he checked his watch and sighed. "I'm sorry, John, but I really have to go – I can't miss Human Biology this afternoon, the teacher's threatened to throw me out of the course. Even though she _knows_ I know the work already. And I want to stop by Scotland Yard on the way back, too, see if I can get _anyone _interested in the shoes."

John nodded abruptly. This was more what he had expected; he had no idea how to deal with the fact that he'd just had sex with someone who had been a complete stranger and he was thoroughly surprised by the way he _didn't_ want to run back to the safety of his dorm room as quickly as possible and forget about the whole ordeal. "I should go back, too," he said. "Make sure I get there before Jim."

Sherlock grinned. "Right," he said, nodding. His green-grey eyes were soft and kind and beautiful, but John found that as he smiled at him his own eyes kept dropping inexorably to his full, cupid's-bowed lips. "I'll see you on Saturday, John."

He stood up hastily and chased the taller boy to the door. "Sherlock," he called quickly, before the boy could leave.

The Cuxton teen turned back, and John got a hand at the back of his neck and pulled him down into a final, slightly clumsy kiss. "I'll see you," he panted quietly once it was over.

Sherlock smiled softly. "Yes," he replied. And then, with a final peck of lips on lips, he had swept around and strode out of the changing room.

Alone, John staggered back to the bench and sat down again. His own clothing was still awry; he tugged it self-consciously back into order, suddenly feeling slightly sick. Sherlock had taken with him the content thrum of John's orgasm, and now all that was left was the icky feeling of sweat and shock that he – _he, John Watson_ – had just rutted himself to climax in a dingy swimming-pool changing room with another boy he'd only just met. He didn't quite know what to think.

He sat there for a few minutes, blinking and trembling at himself. Then a sharp laugh in Jim's lyrical voice from outside broke through his veil of shock and startled him into action. He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the changing-room wall; his shirt was still askew, and there wasn't much he could do about his hair or his swollen lips. He wondered what Bill would say.

And _Christ_, what was he going to tell Sophie?

He steeled his quivering muscles, hauled himself out of the still-open window and started back towards the tube station.


	19. Fourth Interlude

**A/N: **This chapter will make very little sense if you have not read Mirith Griffin's _Control, Alt, Delete_, because it is intended to sort of cement this story in that one's timeline with the inclusion of Julien. You can skip it and you won't miss anything, but I would suggest you take the time to read the other story instead.

Thanks to **rifleman_s** on AO3 for helping me with my French.

* * *

><p><em>De Richelieu Estate, Kensington, 2011<em>

The man had dark curls tumbling around enviable cheekbones. Under the close and intent scrutiny, his warm blue eyes remained steady and his cupid's-bow lips parted into an ever-so-slightly cheeky smile.

Julien smiled back. He would do nicely.

He was about to say so when Madam Benoit, his somewhat matronly secretary, rapped on the door and entered without waiting for a response. "Monsieur de Richelieu?"

Julien did not take his eyes away from the other man – slightly taller than him, so that he had to tip his chin upwards slightly in order to look him in the frighteningly blue eyes – as he hummed reluctant, non-committal acknowledgment.

"_Docteur Watson est ici à vous voir, monsieur. Je lui ai dit que vous étiez occupé, mais il n'écoutait pas." _

He did look away then, allowing the tiny frown to become apparent on his face. "_Docteur Watson?"_ he asked. "_Qui est Docteur Watson?"_

The woman tilted her head to one side in her typical expression of frustration when Julien forgot trivial details about clients and customers_. "L'ami de monsieur Holmes qui était ici avec lui?" _

_Oh._ Julien's lips curled into a sly smile. _Doctor Watson_ was coming to _him_ – for what? Advice? Had Sherlock perhaps already performed the mass deletion exercise he had planned? Julien felt something in his chest tighten with worry – so many things could have gone wrong with attempting to delete that much of his life. If the man that he had done it for was consulting Julien for help, it could not be positive._ "Où est-ce qu'il attend?"_

Madam Benoit smiled thinly. "_Votre bureau, monsieur." _

He nodded absently, trailing his eyes reluctantly up the figure of the man in front of him. _"Je serai là directement. Vous pourriez diriger Monsieur Leslie vers le salon, s'il vous plaît?"_

To the man in front of him he offered a flirtatious arched eyebrow. "I am fearful that this conversation will have to wait," he said, his voice pitched low. "If you are willing to remain here, we can continue it when I am finished with this urgent matter."

Brendan Leslie smiled. "I would be delighted, Monsieur de Richelieu," he agreed.

Julien nodded sharply, gave his secretary a dismissive gesture to continue and left the room.

His office was on the floor above the basement room he had seen Leslie in; by the time he reached it, the stocky ex-military doctor was pacing violently up and down the room. Julien watched him from the doorway for a moment before clearing his throat. He really was the type of man he would envision Sherlock ending up with, after his entirely uncharacteristic relations with the History teacher at secondary school. For some reason, he had always been partial to short, common, rough-around-the-edges men. "Doctor Watson," he greeted politely. "What a pleasure it makes to see you again so soon."

The doctor turned quickly to face him. "Mr de Richelieu," he greeted, giving a sharp military nod. Julien noticed that he did not return the compliment.

"Julien, please," he corrected him. "Forgive my tardiness, _s'il tu plait_ – I have been without a butler for some months and recruiting the replacement has proven difficult. I have a very specific picture of what I want from my staff." He smirked at the memory of Leslie's indolent heart-shaped smile. "I am assuming you are here because of Sherlock? Perhaps we should adjourn to my private parlour."

Doctor Watson frowned. "The woman that showed me in told me this was your office. I'm here as a client, I'd rather stay in the office. If that's all the same to you."

Surprised, Julien inclined his head and sat down lightly behind his desk. "Please take a seat, Doctor Watson."

"I think I'd rather not," the doctor replied, quick and razor-sharp.

Julien raised his hands in surrender. "As you wish." He reached for the decanter of Cognac on the edge of his desk, tilting it towards Doctor Watson and receiving a predicted taut shake of the head before pouring himself two fingers and swirling them around the crystal tumbler. "What is, then, your business with me, _monsieur_?"

John Watson splayed his hands on the desk and leaned forwards menacingly. "I want to purchase an item from your collection."

Once again, Doctor Watson had caught him by surprise; Julien allowed his eyebrows to lift before assuming his usual politely bemused smile. "May I inquire the occasion for such a gift, Doctor Watson? My collection is not priced for the everyday, and Sherlock's birthday is not until June."

He smirked at the faltering expression on the army doctor's bold face. "That's not your concern," he replied coldly.

Julien smirked. The doctor's automatic assumption that Julien was _the enemy_ and out to sabotage his burgeoning relationship with Sherlock was somewhat amusing. He had to admit the look on that weathered face that suggested he would dearly like to throw Julien out of a window for past transgressions left him slightly breathless. "Very well," he conceded. "And which item were you interested in? I am afraid I cannot part with the snuff box for anything contained within the depth of _your_ pockets, _monsieur._"

Doctor Watson shook his head dismissively. "I want the journal," he said firmly. "That journal of somebody Holmes that he was looking at when you walked in."

_Ah._

Julien's mind whirred. There had to be some way he could turn this situation to his advantage; the Doctor could not even _begin_ to afford a single item in his collection unless he began to add immaterial payment. He wanted the journal as a gift for Sherlock – _Sherlock_, the only man Julien had ever genuinely cared for. Sherlock, who was about to methodically scour every mention of him from his cavernous mind until their shared adolescence – and all the snatched moments since – may as well have ceased to exist.

He had been shocked when Sherlock had told him, had _begged _him not to try and contact him after he had done it. _It makes him sick. Thinking of me with other men._ Julien, too, made Doctor Watson sick, it was written on every inch of his simple face. He had draped himself over Sherlock more than usual on his visit with the doctor because the jealous play of emotions on his face had been amusing; he had wondered when Sherlock first mentioned it whether perhaps his physical possessiveness had, in part, caused this sickness.

And yet, Sherlock defined an unhealthily large portion of Julien's life. He had never found anyone quite like Sherlock, no matter how far he had looked; he had given up now, after the resounding proof that the Englishman did not return the sentiment, settled for manipulating look-alikes like Leslie into his house and his bed. At secondary school and university he had become essential somehow; it had felt nice to know that Sherlock would come to him to report the ups and downs of his sexual escapades, to know that even as the tally in his worn lab-book – itself a gift from Julien – approached 150, there was only one whom Sherlock had taken into his confidence, treated as a friend as well as a convenient lover.

When they went their separate ways after Cambridge Julien had attempted to shrug the English genius away, to pursue life and pleasure without him. And then he had called, and they had met for lunches or afternoon trysts at the Estate or the occasional extended trip to France. Sherlock had refused to leave his life but not committed to being in it, and each time Julien reminded himself that he was impartial and found another temporary, boring lover, Sherlock would contact him and he would run to him like the now-detective's booty-call.

He wouldn't go so far as to say that he _loved_ Sherlock. Certainly not the rash, destructive emotion that seemed to have consumed the detective when he had last seen him. But it did appear that the Englishman presented a certain _weakness_ in Julien that he simultaneously resented and did not want to lose.

_The journal_. If Sherlock's deletion was successful – the mass deletion of twenty years and 183 lovers - and he could pull it off without Doctor Watson noticing and being furious, then the journal could be paramount: if Watson presented Sherlock with the journal and – as undoubtedly he would be – he was overjoyed with it, he would surely ask where the doctor had obtained it. And when Sherlock did not recognise the name _Julien de Richelieu_, Doctor Watson would be forced to explain the detective's past to him. To explain _Julien_ to him.

And Sherlock would remember him.

Julien was not certain he could place material worth on the journal of H.H. Holmes. Not in terms that someone of Doctor Watson's financial status could comprehend, in any case. But _immaterial_ worth?

It was certainly worth Sherlock.

He feigned surprise. "The journal?" he repeated. "Yes, I suppose that would interest Sherlock, if only for the possibility of scientific experimentation. Perhaps he might wish to collect any residual DNA and discover if this _Holmes_ is any relation, you think?"

Doctor Watson shrugged. "I don't know why he wants it," he said. "I only know that he wants it, and that I want to give it to him."

Easily, Julien leaned back in his seat and pretended to consider for a minute. "I think this journal I would have difficulty selling in the conventional market for these things," he lied effortlessly. "So, for you, to give to Sherlock, I would take…" again, he tilted his head to the side in an affectation of serious thought. "Ten pounds."

"_Ten quid?"_

"No, you are correct," Julien amended. "Perhaps five."

The ex-army doctor who had so grotesquely convoluted Sherlock's heart stared at him incredulously. Julien sat back, his careful, serene smile fixed on his face, and watched the cogs grinding painfully behind Doctor Watson's blue eyes with some amusement. Naturally the good doctor was suspicious; Julien had made no attempt to hide the fact that he had an ulterior motive for Doctor Watson having the journal. Slowly, though, the stocky man wove his way to the conclusion that there was no real harmful effect of Sherlock having the journal, and that he _wanted_ the journal, and that Julien's dubious motives for selling it to him like this did not overcome his reasons for wanting it.

"Fine," he agreed finally. "Five quid it is. I'll even give it to you in cash."

Julien smiled diplomatically and rose from his chair. "Wonderful," he said politely. "If you would step this way, I will prepare the journal for you – obviously I cannot allow you to simply take it from the case if Sherlock hopes to find the original DNA."

The sense of triumph was short-lived, though, as he watched the firm set to the doctor's walk with the carefully-wrapped journal held in his arms. His final thought before he returned to his new butler was that while he may have managed to stay in the detective's head, what small place he had gained himself in Sherlock's _heart_ over the years had been well and truly stolen by this short, common _Doctor Watson._

Why this thought caused a faint feeling of _deja-vu_ he couldn't fathom.

* * *

><p><strong><em>French translation: (more or less)<em>**

_Doctor Watson is here to see you, monsieur. I told him you were busy, but he would not listen. Doctor Watson? Who is Doctor Watson? The friend of Mr Holmes' who was here with him? Where is he waiting? Your office, monsieur. I will be there directly. Could you direct Mr Leslie to the parlour, please?_


	20. Chapter 15

_Cuxton Grammar School, Central London, 1992_

He thought about John all the way home.

When he'd first been surprised by the boy falling out of the window he had looked at him with a natural sort of superiority. Not because of his blatantly lower economic status, but because he had climbed through the window of a swimming-pool changing room to avoid being seen by the friend he had followed there for somewhat dubious reasons. And then John had not been embarrassed at being caught sneaking around, as Sherlock had expected, but had beamed and offered a hand to shake like he wanted to be Sherlock's friend.

John's eyes had followed his body when they'd moved around and something Julien had said had drifted back to him: _he was denying his sexuality to himself. I saw the challenge._

But John had turned his expectations on their head again; he'd meant the explanation of Carl Powers' shoes to be perfunctory, expected John to look politely bewildered and then allow Sherlock to change the subject to something more personal, but John had probed deeper, sounded _interested_, and then –

_That's not something just anyone could come up with. It's really clever and observant._

No-one had ever complimented him quite like that before. He'd hated himself for it, but he'd pushed further, his attempt to coax further compliments out of John's thin lips pathetically obvious. But John had smiled, invited further observations, and called them _amazing._

Called _him_ amazing.

He hadn't meant to kiss John like he had. He'd meant to draw it out, teasing and almost getting close enough until the shorter boy finally threw caution and sexual identity to the wind and kissed _him_, and then he'd meant to feign passion but remain indifferent as he watched John Watson have what would undoubtedly be the most erotic experience of his life, kiss him sweetly goodbye and then walk out of his life triumphant.

That wasn't what had happened.

When he relived the experience in the waiting room at the police station he'd very nearly embarrassed himself. He'd meant to be in control the whole time, but instead John had snatched it from him with their first kiss, and before he realised what was happening Sherlock had been _giving_ it to him. John had overwhelmed him, over_powered_ him, and Sherlock found himself terribly, achingly hard where he sat at the memory of John's teeth sinking into the vulnerable flesh of his neck.

_You're brilliant._

_You hardly know anything about me._

_I know enough._

Once the police had thrown him bodily from the building, Sherlock caught the bus back to Cuxton and slid inconspicuously into his seat beside Julien in the Human Biology classroom just as the bell for start of class went off.

The French boy raised an eyebrow at him, his vivid green eyes travelling over Sherlock's hair – that he had tried desperately to smooth into the semblance of order it had been in before John had run his fingers through it and failed – and his still-rumpled clothing before lifting up in amusement. "Did you find what you were looking for, _cheri_?" he asked wryly.

Sherlock grinned back at him. "I found more than that," he admitted readily.

When the petite, olive-skinned teacher clicked her high-heels to the front of the room and called for silence, she caught Sherlock's eye and nodded in approval. Having got what he needed from the lesson, as her next sentence about evolution proved, Sherlock lapsed back into thoughts of John.

He certainly hadn't expected John to want to meet him again after it was over. Or to want the meeting himself. But he _had_ – when the act itself was over he had curled into John almost reflexively and pictured falling asleep like this, content and warm and comfortable. Meeting John for lunch on Saturday seemed so _easy_. Could he really have a typical relationship with John?

"So," Julien began idly when the biology teacher had dismissed them and they had returned to his room, placing his chin flirtatiously on his hand like a high-end prostitute and looking up at Sherlock. "Tell me about your outing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I went out to Bloomsbury, had an argument with a police officer, met someone in the changing room, managed to seduce him to my way of thinking, discovered that Carl Powers was murdered and came home. After a brief detour to get thrown out of a police station."

The other boy's smile widened. "That is not what I meant – I care not for your Carl Powers. You have, I think…" he frowned the frown that Sherlock had come to associate with the translation of a particular turn of phrase, one delicate hand reaching out to thumb a lock of Sherlock's hair from his face. "_Battle hair_."

Sherlock smiled. "Like I said, I _seduced_ him. Rather effectively, as it turned out."

Julien made a wistful expression of mock-rue. "Ah, _cheri,"_ he sighed, brushing another fingertip across the plane of Sherlock's cheekbone. The touch felt nice; Sherlock had to admit he rather liked people stroking him, the way John had smoothed his hands through his hair when he leaned on him. "You know not the effect you have on ordinary hearts."

The thing was, he wasn't sure that John's heart _was_ ordinary. Certainly no-one else had ever reacted to him quite the way John had. He smirked idly instead, flapping Julien's hand away from his face. "He certainly seemed fond of me," he said, intending to make his voice sound disparaging but failing so dismally he flushed red in embarrassment. "He wanted to meet me for lunch on Saturday."

He expected the French boy to laugh with him and move on, but Julien frowned, ducking his head as though to get a better view of Sherlock's eyes. "And you were thinking of going? _Cheri,_ you must know that this would not be clever."

Sherlock snorted in an attempt at derision. "I wasn't thinking of going," he lied smoothly. "Can you imagine me as someone's _boyfriend_?"

Julien said nothing, but it was a horrible, _knowing_ silence. Sherlock kissed him, hard and bruising, until the smug smirk on his face trembled and fell into soft cries of _s'il tu plait, Sherlock, plus…_

He took what he wanted because of the ugly, bitter feeling in his stomach raised by Julien's words. It _hurt_, really, to know that he was right – he and John Watson were completely different people and there was no way Sherlock would ever be able to give John what he wanted, no way John would ever be what Sherlock needed, and the childish part of him that wanted to try anyway was swiftly rebuffed by the larger, more logical part that knew it would only hurt him when he failed.

Sherlock tried to laugh with Julien like he usually did as they fell onto the bed together, but it could not have been more obvious that the other boy was not convinced.

After, when they collapsed onto the duvet covered in a thin sheen of sweat and lube and come, Sherlock's body curled into Julien's before he had time to think about the move. He flinched when he realised what he had done and tried to cover the movement by rolling over him and snagging a tissue from the box beside the bed to clean himself off slightly.

He felt like he was going to be sick. He didn't want to have to fidget his way through Saturday wondering whether John was sitting outside the British Museum waiting for him. Of course, it was very likely that he wouldn't be. Sherlock had caught that frantic, bewildered expression John had cast himself in the mirror as he left; it was more than likely, in fact, that he would decide that what he had done was _not_ him, not something he wanted to define him; that Sherlock was a mistake that he should try to forget about.

But what if he didn't?

Sherlock collected his clothes and went back to his own room as Julien began to fall into a doze, his body aching for contact that he absolutely refused to let it need.

Shortly after midnight he was knocking on Joseph Grieg's door.

His hands were shaking, and he didn't even have to _pretend _to look young and vulnerable; he could feel his body curling in upon itself as he waited in the hallway, hoping desperately that none of the other teachers would walk past while he stood there outside the Classics teacher's door in his pyjamas.

After a moment he heard footsteps; the door swung open to reveal Grieg in an argyle jumper and a pair of jeans that looked as though they had been pulled on hurriedly in his haste to open the door, his blond hair rumpled and blue eyes foggy with sleep. Upon seeing the identity of his visitor, the young teacher's face fell yet further and he let go of the elbow he was holding onto in order to reposition his hands defensively by his sides.

Sherlock coughed nervously. "C-can I come in, please?" he said, purposefully tripping over his words.

For a moment he thought Grieg was about to say no; then the teacher sighed and swung the door open further, making a lazy 'come in' gesture as he walked back into the rooms, not looking at Sherlock.

Carefully, he shut the door behind him and flinched as Grieg switched on the lights to reveal a quaint sitting-room, the sofa to which Grieg flopped onto and gestured Sherlock towards the matching armchair. He said nothing.

Sherlock perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair and folded his hands on his lap, letting the silence brew for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said quickly.

Grieg sat sprawled across the couch, watching him, still saying nothing.

Sherlock tried again. "I… I didn't mean those things I said to you. I was just… I didn't know what to do, I was scared, I thought you'd… well, it's what always happens in situations like this, isn't it, the student gets their heart broken? And I'd just had all that stuff with Julien and I… I just didn't want to get hurt."

He stopped for breath and to re-evaluate, but the blond still didn't speak, so he smiled weakly. "I'm really sorry. I know you'd never do that to me, not after all the things you've said to me – and you were more at risk than I was in that situation and you still… I just… I didn't think, and I'm really, _really _sorry."

His entire pre-prepared speech delivered, Sherlock sat back slightly and watched the teacher nervously. Grieg stared at him until he said quietly, "Please say something."

Then he sighed. "Sherlock…" he began, but then he stopped, put his head in his hands, and groaned. "I could never be angry with you," he admitted through his palms. "I was angry at _me_, for showing you how I felt – and for feeling it in the first place. But it didn't seem like _you_ to be so cruel."

"It wasn't," Sherlock lied immediately. "I didn't mean to be cruel, I just didn't know how to react and I was scared you wouldn't want me."

Joseph Grieg stood up slowly from the sofa and knelt in front of him. "I could never _not_ want you, Sherlock," he said firmly, placing warm, strong hands on Sherlock's knees. "_Never_."

Sherlock smiled haltingly, and Joe smiled back, his blue eyes warm. "I… I just want to know, Sherlock," he said after a moment. "What _do_ you want from me?"

_Comfort_, Sherlock supposed, if he was honest. Because Julien wouldn't laugh if he clung onto Joe Grieg like a dependent teenager, whereas he couldn't turn to Julien and he certainly couldn't go back to John, and he needed _some_ way to deal with the way that made his chest hurt. "What you said, after – just spending some time together, I want that. And obviously I want what we did before, only without… me leaving afterwards."

Joe watched him for another moment. Then he softly rocked up onto his heels and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, warm and damp and gentle. Sherlock clung to him through the kiss; his blond hair was a similar length to John's, he noticed, but for the hopeful sort of curl at the ends of it. His lips and tongue were commanding, so Sherlock gave himself up to them, let himself take what he wanted and stay close to the older man, to chase his lips when they tried to break away and wind his fingers with Joe's rougher ones when they were offered to him.

"Do you want to –"

"Yes," Sherlock pre-empted.

His stomach jolted as Joseph Grieg lifted him out of his seat; Sherlock's legs automatically wrapped around his strong waist, and Joe didn't try to get him to let go but laughed a dry rumble of gravel deep inside his chest and carried Sherlock through to the tiny bedroom, making soft noises as Sherlock latched his lips onto the salty skin of his neck.

He didn't try to argue when the Classics teacher placed him reverently on the bed and immediately kissed his way underneath Sherlock's baggy t-shirt, the fabric stretching over his head so that Sherlock couldn't find purchase in his hair until it re-emerged and worked its way instead into his equally loose-fitting bottoms.

Sherlock didn't think of John, because every time the other blond popped into his head his chest tightened until he couldn't breathe.

After he was finished, he reached desperately for Joe, who gasped his name after only a few strokes, wrapping tanned arms tightly around him as he shook out his climax.

Joe kicked off his own pyjama bottoms to wipe himself off one-handed, the other trapped under Sherlock's side where they had fallen. He lay back and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock wondered if he would be expected to leave. "Can I stay?" he asked, no longer sure whether he wanted to appear young and vulnerable or whether that was just how he felt.

"I'd like you to stay," Joe answered, wrapping his whole body around Sherlock's and wriggling until they were under the covers. "You're incredible, Sherlock," he whispered, the words pillowing warmly against his head.

Sherlock didn't know what to say, so he clutched tighter instead, rubbing the tip of his nose against the warm chest in front of him.

He had been wrong to think that attachment to other people was a weakness, that was becoming clear. It plainly took a lot of strength for Joe to fall for him – surely it would have been _easier_ to push Sherlock away, to close the door straight away once he had opened it onto his perfectly blatant intentions. Joe was cradling him tightly in his arms as though he would be willing to shield Sherlock with his own body from _actual_ wounds and not just the barbed insults and potentially devastating consequences of them being found out.

And John? John could not be called weak – _John_ who was so willing, even _eager_ to throw himself on the front line and fight for his country, John who was noble and brave –

Sherlock caught the tone of his own thoughts and frowned at them. Not _weakness_, perhaps, he amended, but it certainly didn't show the greatest sense of intelligent self-preservation.

Mycroft's face floated into his head; he could picture so clearly his elder brother saying something disparaging about this particular strand of bravery being merely a synonym for idiocy. Unsurprisingly, the idea only made him surer in his new opinion that the quality was to be admired. He'd always thought that Mycroft's way of life was somehow deficient, and that he himself would try to make sure his own life didn't end up the same.

He stretched his arm further around Joe and held him close. He _respected_ people like the teacher: people who went into life prepared and eager to make connections with others, prepared to love and to lose, to be happy and to be hurt in varying and uncertain proportions. People like _John_, who would put down their own lives for the lives of others without a second thought. He _respected _them, even admired them, but he could not expect to be one of them.

_Not yet_, he told himself as Joe tightened his arms in response and kissed the top of his head again. _Maybe just not yet._


	21. Chapter 16

_Islington High School, 1992_

Bill's expression was so comically outraged that John almost wished he had a camera.

"_John!" _he almost shouted incredulously. John looked around the hall apologetically as people started to look away from their dinner to watch them and made several frantic hushing noises. Bill, however, was not to be dissuaded from his righteous indignation, though he did lower his voice. "You skipped class because you suspected a fifteen year-old – your _friend_ – of murder?"

He had to admit there weren't a lot of ways of phrasing it that didn't sound absolutely rotten. "Not – well – I just _wondered_ – you can't tell me you didn't find him suspicious at the pool yesterday."

"I thought he was being _inappropriate,_ sure, but that's not the same thing – Jim wouldn't _kill_ someone, John!" Bill's hands were flailing to such an extent that the people down the table from them had moved away to avoid being spattered with butter chicken. John remained tactically silent; after a while, Bill sighed. "Where did he go, then?" he asked reluctantly.

"The pool," John said triumphantly. Bill's eyebrows shot up. "He was meeting that blond we saw him making eyes at."

The redhead nodded, his lips twisted into a wry grin. "You went all the way to Bloomsbury to watch Jim hook up with some burly blond," he confirmed. John shrugged, hoping desperately that Bill would laugh it off and change the subject. "Well, that'll teach you to follow people," the boy laughed instead, his face clearing almost immediately. "But none of that explains why you look like you've been dragged backwards through a box-hedge."

John opted to feign innocence. "What?" he said blithely, looking down at his clothes and shoving another forkful of curry into his mouth.

"You look like someone's been running their fingers through your hair and fiddling with your clothes," Bill persisted. John tried very hard to shake off the phantom sensation of Sherlock's long, desperate fingers tugging at his scalp and look as though the sentence meant nothing to him, but Bill's next screech of _John! _drew definite attention from the entire hall. John cringed.

"What's he done?" Jim asked curiously as he placed a tray of curry down beside Bill. John noticed amid the sense of impending doom that the Irish boy's hair and clothing were as impeccable as ever.

Bill's lips were curled back into an exaggerated snarl, but John could see that beyond the expression he looked vaguely amused. "_John,_" he growled, leaning forwards over the table and thankfully lowering his voice to a dramatic stage-whisper, "has skipped class for a lusty rendezvous with a girl who I'm assuming is not his goody-two-shoes girlfriend."

Jim's mouth twisted knowingly as he looked John quickly up and down. "No," he lilted in amusement. "No, I would assume _she_ wasn't."

John felt his face flush at the slight emphasis the younger boy had placed on the word _she_ and knew that Jim had somehow figured out _exactly_ what he had done. "Look," he started, but he couldn't finish any kind of sentence from there. How terrible _was_ it that Sophie hadn't crossed his mind at all from the moment he had seen Sherlock? He had been so caught up in his unprecedented appreciation of his very masculine form and his fragile, reluctantly-expressive face. He'd felt as though he _knew_ the other boy, as though he was someone vitally important, someone he couldn't allow himself to pass by. Someone who was, somehow, and it sounded absolutely horrible to verbalise it in his head, _more important_ to him than Sophia. "I wasn't thinking, they caught me completely by surprise."

Bill looked disgusted. "Oh, and that makes it all right to cheat on Sophia, does it?"

"_No,_" John protested, "absolutely not, but I –"

"What?"

At the sound of the high, vulnerable voice, John groaned and thumped his head on the table. Sophie carefully placed her tray on the bench beside his and frowned down at him.

"I think we should talk outside," he said quietly.

He hadn't meant to deal with this quite so quickly, but maybe it was for the best that he suffered through his identity crisis without buffeting the poor girl around as some kind of collateral damage. "I don't really know what to say," he said quietly, looking down into Sophie's wide brown eyes. "I didn't do it to hurt you. I'm still not even sure how it happened, but I went out at lunchtime and I met someone and everything happened so fast…" The girl raised an eyebrow, and somehow the gesture didn't seem as hurt as John had feared she would be and John was able to take a deep breath and say the hard part. "I'm really sorry, Sophie, but I think we should stop this. I need time by myself to think about whether this means I'm the kind of person that does this."

_Not just skips class to snog strangers,_ he added to himself, _but gets swept away so easily by a dashing _man_ with a dazzling mind. _Because that _had_ been what it was, he was sure – Sherlock had been so brilliant, so _singular_, and when he had expressed his enthusiastic interest John had been so flattered and overwhelmed he would not have been able to say no even _if_ he wasn't interested himself.

Sophia looked as though she would hit him for a moment, and then relaxed slowly. "I think I can respect that," she said quietly. "I know you, John. They must have been really special for this to happen." Sherlock's face, flushed with nerves and arousal, swam in front of John's eyes and he smiled at it and nodded. "If you decide that you're _not_ the kind of person that does this, I'll still be here," she said.

John smiled weakly. "Thanks," he said. "I, um… I think I'll go upstairs. I'd mostly finished anyway, and I'd like a few minutes away from Bill – I think he's just as shocked as I am."

She smiled at him, but it still trembled as though she was fighting back tears. John felt like hitting himself. "Right. I'll see you around, John."

* * *

><p>It was indeed only a few minutes that John was away from Bill – he had barely sat down on his bed before the redhead burst into his room with only a cursory knock on the door. John cringed, but Bill only flung himself onto the bed and studied John thoughtfully. "Tell me about it," he said after a moment.<p>

John's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "What, you want the gory details?" he teased.

Bill's face blanched. "Definitely not," he rejoined. "I want the _nice_ details. It's not like you to do something like this, so who was she?"

For a moment, John said nothing, weighing up how much to tell him. But Bill was his best friend, and he had been since their very first week at Islington High, and even if his judgment on matters of his own heart was often lacking he had always given John good advice and he would never laugh, or be disgusted, or say anything to make John feel worse. After the moment had passed, John sighed. "What would you say if I told you I was bisexual?"

The redhead paused. Then he said carefully, in the exact same tone as before, "So who was he?"

John blinked and tried not to laugh in disbelief. "That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"What else am I supposed to say?" Bill asked, shrugging nonchalantly. "I think it's great. I'd be bisexual myself if I'd ever found a man attractive. Now you're going to get hit on by twice as many people."

This time he _did _laugh. "I'm not really sure it works that way, Bill."

Bill shrugged again, but they were both grinning. "The earlier question still stands. He must have been quite something to make you forget about Sophie. _Which_ I still haven't forgiven you for, by the way."

_Quite something_ was really rather an apt description of Sherlock, John mused, even as he winced at Bill's threatening tone. The only reason he hadn't considered the fact that Bill seemed to treat Sophie as a younger sister when he had solidified his relationship with her was that it really hadn't crossed his mind that he could hurt her like this. He hadn't ever planned for a situation where something – or someone - would be so much more important to him that it wouldn't even register in his mind that he shouldn't be doing what he was. But then, _not having planned for Sherlock Holmes_ sounded like it could very easily become some sort of mantra to him.

"He was at the pool," John began. "He'd broken in – it was in the paper this morning, I don't know if you saw, and he said that he'd seen it and thought it looked suspicious because they hadn't mentioned having found Carl's _shoes_. Bill, he's an absolute _genius._ He had this whole chain of reasoning as to why missing shoes meant that Carl was murdered, and when I said it was amazing he looked at me and he could just _tell _all this stuff about me, even stuff I've never told anyone else. He was absolutely _brilliant_, but when I told him that he looked at me like no-one had ever said it before, like no-one ever complimented him."

Bill's face cleared immediately. "Oh," he said. "So he's another one of your fixer-uppers with no self-esteem."

John shoved at him. "Not like _that_," he said. "I reckon he thought pretty well of himself and just thought everyone else was an idiot. Like he'd never realised how nice it feels to have someone tell you you're amazing, you know?" Bill raised an eyebrow and shrugged pointedly, as though John had made this exact argument before, though he didn't remember doing so. "He was clever in the same sort of way as Jim, actually," John mused. "You know, observant and good at drawing conclusions."

"If you start trying to shag Jim I'm putting my foot down," Bill retorted. John laughed; it seemed so ridiculous to react the same way to Jim as he had to Sherlock. The curly Cuxton boy had been more _open_ somehow, more willing to interact with people. John felt as though Jim had accepted their company because attempting to get rid of them would have been too much trouble, rather than because he wanted friends, as though he would be perfectly happy on his own. Sherlock's reactions to his praise, however, suggested a more natural desire to be _wanted_ by someone, and John had always been unable to resist being that someone – particularly if he would be the _only_ one.

"We arranged to meet up on Saturday," he told his friend quietly, not looking at him.

Bill moved his head until it was in John's line of sight anyway. "Of course you did," he agreed. "You couldn't just leave a bloke like that."

John fidgeted with his hands in his lap. "I wasn't sure I should go, actually," he said. "I still don't really know how it happened. I mean, one moment we were just sitting there talking and then the next he was kissing me."

"Stop there," Bill insisted, as though John had looked like he wanted to volunteer more information. He grinned at the redhead, trying to ignore the flashes of _not stopping_ that were battering their way across his mind and distracting him from the disgusted look on Bill's face. "Just because I'm okay with you liking blokes doesn't mean I want to hear about it."

He chuckled. "I wasn't _actually _going to say anything about it," he said languidly. Bill flapped a hand at him. "I just mean… it's kind of scary," he admitted. "I've never even fancied a bloke before, and then suddenly I meet this one, admittedly incredible, guy and I forget about my girlfriend and start snogging him in a swimming-pool changing room – a _crime scene._ It's not like the me I thought I knew."

The redhead frowned at him. "It's not like the you I thought _I_ knew, either," he said bluntly. "I'm utterly shocked. But… I reckon if this guy –"

"Sherlock," John provided, mostly because it sounded weird hearing the pale creature referred to as 'this guy'.

Bill gave him a Look. "I reckon if _Sherlock_ was incredible enough to make you do this," he continued as though John had not interrupted, "then you'd be stupid not to take whatever _more_ he's offering."

John had thought this too, at first – that Sherlock was so amazing, and wanted _him_ even though he'd never wanted anyone before, and there had been something almost _tangible_ connecting them, and didn't that make it absolutely _essential_ that he follow this as far as he could? And yet… "That's just it, though – he's _incredible_. And he'd never realised that trying to _like_ someone and being _liked_ by someone could be so good before. Now that he knows that, he's not going to stay with someone like me for very long, is he? Not with his eyes and his cheekbones and… what if I let myself get attached to him and he found someone else?"

The taller boy rolled his eyes. "From the way you've described him he sounds like Jim. He probably makes more enemies than friends with his _clever_ observations and deductions. John, you were probably the first person to ever _try _to like him. How likely is it that another one's going to come along right after you? Especially someone that he would think was _better_ than you?"

"But he knows he _wants_ people to like him now," John persisted. "He'll _act_ differently. And even if he doesn't… he'd had… I mean…" he blushed. "He wasn't a _virgin._ He'd had _casual _sex with people before. What if that was all it was to him, and that's all he wants?"

Bill apparently had an inexhaustible supply of retorts and justifications. "The only way you can find out is to go," was the latest one. "You've only met the guy once, John. Meeting him and trying to start something with him is a risk in so many ways, but if he's really as amazing as you're saying, if it works it could be the best thing that's ever happened to you."

"If it works," John repeated dully. "We're such different people. He's probably already decided that it was a mistake and not to come on Saturday."

"You're talking yourself out of it," Bill informed him promptly, frowning heavily.

John cringed. "Yeah," he admitted.

The frown did not diminish. "Are you doing that because you don't want to go, or because you want me to talk you back into it?"

He hadn't really thought about either; _did_ he want to meet Sherlock, completely ignoring all the reasons he _should_ or _shouldn't_? "I don't know," he said finally.

Bill stood up abruptly, brushing imaginary dust or crumbs from his pullover. "That's okay," he said soothingly. "But make sure you think about it."

John snorted. "Are you kidding me?" he retorted. "Like I'll be able to think of anything _else_."

* * *

><p>Bill left him alone until breakfast the next morning. John had, as predicted, got very little sleep in between fervent recollections of the swimming-pool changing-room and irritatingly-persistent erections. What little sleep he did manage to drift off to was invaded by dreams of sharp cheekbones and impossible eyes, of Sherlock's hands on him, Sherlock on his knees in front of him, <em>John<em> on his knees in front of _Sherlock_ and being looked down at with that shocked, awed expression that had been on the boy's face in the instant before he'd kissed him –

"So are you going on Saturday?"

John flushed and looked up at Bill, who was once again leaning conspiratorially over the table towards him with a piece of toast dangling from his fingers dangerously close to his second cup of coffee. "I don't know, Bill," he said, allowing his irritation to show in his voice. "It's only Thursday, I don't have to decide right now."

Jim, who seemed to get up frighteningly early every morning and was always at breakfast earlier than the other two, looked curiously between them. "What's on Saturday?" he asked innocently.

Bill leapt at the opportunity. "_Saturday,_" he said significantly, "is when an apparently dashing genius named Sherlock Holmes will be waiting for John at the British Museum, to be given either a romantic date or an enormous disappointment."

"A _genius,"_ Jim repeated in a mockingly interested drawl, raising an eyebrow at John.

"He sounds a bit like you, actually, Jim," Bill continued. "You know, the way you notice things that other people don't and use them to draw conclusions about people."

The Irish boy definitely looked interested now; John felt a flood of jealousy rush through him and almost declared that he was going on the spot just to stop Jim from attempting to go in his stead. "He thinks Carl Powers was murdered," he said instead. "He read about it in the papers and he thinks the killer stole his shoes."

This remark had the opposite effect than John intended; Jim's other eyebrow shot up and he looked not only interested but _impressed_. Sullenly, John bit back the _you can't have him_ on his tongue and kept silent while Bill started up a sort of pep-talk of all the reasons John should go.

"He just sounds so sweet and vulnerable," he was saying. "Imagine what _those eyes and those cheekbones_ will look like when he realises you're not coming."

For a long time afterwards, John would blame Bill's steady flow of teasing for his final decision. Bill was so determined that John should go that he found himself coming up with more and more reasons why he shouldn't just to counteract his friend's arguments. "I'm not going," he announced finally on Friday evening.

Bill's head snapped up from _The Great Gatsby_, his eyebrows drawing together. "Why not?" he asked suspiciously.

John sighed. "Bill, I just _can't_," he pleaded. "I've thought about everything – I haven't _stopped _thinking about it and that _scares_ me. Sherlock's just so _much_ it's overwhelming, and I don't think I can deal with that long-term, but I can't ask him to tone it down for me and I wouldn't want him to. We're just so different that it was exciting, that's all, but it could never actually _work._"

"So you're not even going to try?"

He struggled to phrase his reasons for not going in ways that Bill wouldn't immediately reject, but it was hard: he had definitely picked the weaker argument. And yet his most compelling thought when he imagined meeting Sherlock, promising something long-term, was an overwhelming sense of not being _ready_. Sherlock was a whirlwind; John had been with him for just over an hour and he already occupied 90% of his brain function. How long, if he actually _dated_ the boy, before he became one of those obnoxious, obsessed people who couldn't talk about anything other than Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_? John wanted his own life before he let it get taken over by someone else's who was just so much _more_.

So many of his arguments focussed on long-term effects of a relationship with Sherlock that it was a problem in itself; if he went ahead and met the Cuxton boy, he would be preparing for something _very_ long-term, surrendering to the fact that Sherlock was going to become the defining part of himself for the indeterminate future. Sherlock would, within their first walk around the British Museum, come to influence the way he thought about what he wanted to do in the future, from Christmas dinner to enlisting in the army. What were the chances that Sherlock was in it for the same?

"I can't," he repeated helplessly. "I'm just not ready for someone like him."

Bill frowned at him. "Okay," he said, in a tone of voice that quite plainly said the opposite. "It's your decision, John."

He was grateful that Jim wasn't in the room. He trusted Bill's feedback, and his friend seemed to have almost as much emotion invested in the saga as John did himself, but the Irish boy's sudden interest in Sherlock unnerved him and he really didn't want to have to think about that while convincing Bill that he really _shouldn't_ go.

John should have known, however, that Bill had accepted his decision too easily.

"I wonder how long Sherlock will wait before he admits to himself that you're not coming," he said casually as John stood up to go to bed. "Will he sit there on the steps of the Museum, or will he just lean against something so that people don't notice he's been stood up?"

"Bill," John said firmly, quelling his friend's wistful expression, "I'm not going."

* * *

><p>At precisely eleven-fifteen on Saturday morning, John realised he'd chosen wrong.<p>

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, burying his head in his hands and attracting bewildered stares from everyone around their study table except Bill. "I've made the wrong decision."

Bill looked at him and nodded slowly, biting his lip and looking as though he was trying very hard not to say, _I told you so_. "Yeah," he agreed, looking away again.

John groaned again. "Oh, _fuck._" He looked up at the clock as though his eyes hadn't been fixed on it since nine o'clock that morning, frozen in the final stages of indecision. Eleven-fifteen, and even if he took a taxi it would take him at least three-quarters of an hour to get to London Central from here. He couldn't realistically expect Sherlock to wait for him for an hour.

He was too late.

"It was the _first time_ he'd wanted someone," he moaned. Bradley and Matt shot alarmed glances at each other. "His _first_ romantic experience, and I just stood him up."

Bill nodded again. "Yeah," he repeated.

"_Fuck_," John cursed. "What's he going to think of romance? I've just taught him that he can't trust anyone, can't venture his heart, all because I was scared to risk mine! What if he never tries again? What if he spends the rest of his life scared to get attached to anyone?"

Bill's _I told you so _look became even more pronounced. John felt like clawing out his own heart and flinging it desperately in the direction of London. No-one had ever told Sherlock he was brilliant before, and then just when he found someone who did, that someone abandoned him like he was nothing. John could see Sherlock's life spread out before him; would he shun human contact completely now, snap at the people who tried to help him? John could have changed that, could have made other people see how amazing Sherlock was.

Bill got up and crossed over to where John was sitting to clap him on the back. "John, mate," he said seriously. "You weren't ready. Maybe it's better that he be disappointed for a while and then move on than the both of you have false hope for however long a relationship might last."

John nodded half-heartedly, but he knew that not keeping his appointment with Sherlock Holmes was going to be one of the things he regretted most in his entire life, one of those things that kept popping up at inopportune moments to crush his self-esteem. _Once, I showed a boy what a proper human relationship could be like and then snatched it away from him._

Maybe Sherlock's genius would get noticed one day, John reasoned. _Someone_ had to listen to his little observations about crime scenes, surely. Maybe his name would come up somewhere and John would recognise it. _If I ever meet him again,_ John promised himself, _I will never stop telling him how incredible he is._


	22. Epilogue

**A/N: **So a lot of the beginning of this is my take on John's POV of a scene from the show. I know it frustrates me a bit when people take dialogue straight from the source material (and I've paraphrased bits of it, which will frustrate some people even more) so I thought I'd just warn you beforehand. Thought of other ways to do this scene but they didn't work quite the same way.

Also, I might come back to this story at some point in the future and add more to it, flesh out bits of plot, maybe add more interludes. I think there's a lot of potential here that I didn't get a chance to explore. For the meantime, enjoy the epilogue!

-for you

* * *

><p><em>St Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital, 2010<em>

Sherlock was speaking, and John _was_ listening rather than simply staring at his friend's lips as they moved.

He'd tried to tell himself that living with Sherlock Holmes wasn't getting harder, but he wasn't entirely sure that it _wasn't_. These last twenty-four hours, since the explosion and the message from the bomber, had been quite possibly the worst experience that John had had since coming back from Afghanistan, and that included the night before he met Sherlock, when he'd sat for an hour with his eyes travelling between his empty blog and his loaded gun. The challenge of the bomber, with whom Sherlock claimed to have so much in common, had thrown the detective into a new state of sociopathic mania, and every time he made a flippant comment that showed his apparent disregard for the fates of other human beings John couldn't help but think it was his fault.

He'd realised who Sherlock was mere moments after being introduced to him. Well, of course he had – the name _Sherlock Holmes_ had been floating around his subconscious looking for something to connect with ever since he'd had that memory on the operating table in Afghanistan, of the swimming pool and the look on Sherlock's face when they'd said goodbye. His new flatmate, however, did not appear to have noticed at all, and John still hadn't decided whether this was a good thing or not. On the one hand, he didn't have to face the inevitable scorn and disgust from Sherlock – who appeared to have become something resembling asexual in their years apart – when he remembered the incident and deduced, because of course he bloody would, that John wanted to relive it. On the other, his frequent flashbacks to that afternoon whenever Sherlock touched him and almost nightly wonderings whether the man would still make those little gasping noises when John stroked his cock were really distracting him from his new, _normal_ relationship with Sherlock.

The computer in front of Sherlock began to beep triumphantly; instantly, the detective was distracted from the thoughtful stare he'd been giving John and instead turned to examine the machine's findings.

"Any luck?"

John would have liked Molly were she not so blatantly trying to get into Sherlock's designer underwear. He knew he had no right to be so possessive and jealous over his _flatmate_, but whether or not they were _actually_ sleeping together John couldn't help but believe that he had more of a right to Sherlock's underwear than she did, especially considering that he had to wash the damn things every week.

Sherlock nonetheless gave a positively _sexual_ "Oh, yes," in response to her question. John bit his lip and weathered the collaboration between the two scientists in silence until the door swung open behind Molly.

The small, dark-haired man who had opened it blanched at the sight of them and backed out again with a hasty, "Sorry, I didn't realise anyone was…"

Molly, however, halted the man's progress. "Jim!" she said in flustered surprise. "Hi! No, come in, come in!" The latter part of the greeting was said with an air of expectation, as though something very momentous was about to happen; John was puzzled until her next sentence was to introduce Sherlock. _Of course_. She had spoken to this Jim about Sherlock and promised to introduce them at some point. The young man had probably followed her into the lab knowing exactly who was in there and hoping for just this to happen.

Unsurprisingly, Molly had to pause and ask him his name when she went to introduce him; John introduced himself with barely a second glance at the man and had almost dismissed him when his murmured 'Hi' in return betrayed the tiniest hint of an Irish accent and he suddenly realised why the man had looked so familiar.

"Hang on," he said quickly. "_Jim_? Islington High, 1992?"

The man looked at him as though he had interrupted something vitally important. "Yes," he said, recovering quickly and smiling, politely puzzled. "John Watson – _oh! John!"_

John grinned. "Fancy seeing you here," he said brightly, glad to have taken the spotlight away from Sherlock for a moment. "You look good, how's life treating you?"

In truth, John was rather shocked at Jim's appearance. The introverted way that he was holding himself, the way he had had to revert to such obvious subterfuge to be introduced to Sherlock – at school John remembered a Jim that had enormous potential. He remembered the boy with the impish smile who would pick the lock on the kitchen door so that John and Bill could fetch a midnight snack, and almost sighed aloud. He had always wondered what had happened to Jim after they had left him at Islington High. They had been the boy's only friends, and he had been worried that the bullies who had stayed in the background while John and Bill were there would start picking on Jim once they had gone. Apparently something _had_ happened to him: the spirit that John had so admired was not visible in this timid man at all.

"Good," Jim replied, the attention that John had earned from him evaporating. "So," he said instead, clapping his hands together awkwardly. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you."

The Great Detective, in true Sherlock fashion, looked his friend's new boyfriend up and down and then dismissed him with a casual remark of, "Gay," that didn't seem to be directed at anyone in particular.

John thought back to following Jim from Islington to Bloomsbury just to discover that he'd gone there for some bizarre hookup with a burly blond boy he'd met at the inter-school swimming competition. Yes, the Jim he'd known had definitely been gay, and wouldn't have pretended otherwise for anyone. Apparently high school on his own had knocked that out of him, too.

Molly looked shocked. "What?" she stuttered.

Sherlock seemed to realise he had made some sort of social _faux pas_. "Oh, nothing, um… hey," he covered lamely.

Jim nodded, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. "Hey," he replied, and then promptly proceeded to knock a dish from the table and allow it to clatter noisily to the floor. "Oh! Sorry," he said, with the air of the habitually clumsy. John narrowed his eyes; he had remembered Jim as possessing an enviable sort of natural grace. When Jim replaced the dish on the bench, John thought he caught a glimpse of a business-card-shaped piece of paper. His dislike of this new, pathetic Jim increased tenfold: was Jim trying to _flirt_ with Sherlock?

"Well," he said eventually, doing the awkward clapping motion again. "I've got to go. I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?" he said to Molly, patting her sweetly on the lower back. "It was nice to meet you," he directed at Sherlock, managing to sound almost _wistful_.

Sherlock, satisfyingly, didn't reply. John left him hanging for a moment, just to show him how _not interested_ his flatmate was, then dismissed him with a conciliatory, "Nice to see you again, Jim."

His high-school friend barely looked at him.

"What do you mean, gay?" Molly asked as soon as her 'boyfriend' had left the room. "We're together!"

Sherlock finally emerged from the microscope only to say something scathing to the pathologist; John almost felt sorry for the girl. "He's _not gay_," she protested, sounding on the verge of tears. "Why do you have to _spoil_ – he's _not_."

The look on Molly's face was so pathetic during Sherlock's rebounding flood of observations that John stepped in to defend one of his points; all the same, she gave him a look plainly intended to be pure fury and then ran out of the room. John sighed. "Charming," he said, forcing himself to sound resigned and frustrated rather than secretly thrilled that Sherlock had shut down two hopeful suitors without blinking. "Well done."

"I was just saving her time, isn't that kinder?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely puzzled at her reaction.

John snorted. "No, Sherlock, _that_ wasn't kind."

The detective let out a huff of frustrated breath. "He _was_ gay, though," he maintained.

"As a picnic basket," John agreed. "I went to school with the bloke. But he's obviously fighting it, so it was extremely rude of you to point it out when his girlfriend was in the same room, not to mention crushing poor Molly's dreams." Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, pushing the microscope aside and picking up his phone instead. "The Jim I knew at school wouldn't have tried to fight or hide being gay, though," John mused. "It's sad, isn't it, what the world can do to people. I always thought that if people would stop bullying Jim he could be an amazing person."

Sherlock sighed in that manner that told John he had stopped listening when John first started speaking. John tried not to throw his arms in the air like a despairing housewife and watched instead as his flatmate shifted in his chair, fiddling with the shoes and looking up at John, his expression almost shy.

"Go on, then," Sherlock said softly. John raised an eyebrow at him, tempting as it was to simply agree to everything he said. "You know what I do, off you go."

John folded his arms. "No. I'm not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try to disseminate what –"

"An outside eye," Sherlock interrupted. "A second opinion is very useful to me."

John snorted. "Yeah, right."

"_Really_," the detective insisted. John wondered, as he looked at those impossible grey-green-blue eyes, whether this was the entire reason Sherlock kept him around: because John trying and failing to do what came so naturally to Sherlock himself was relentlessly amusing, like a monkey at a circus.

Inevitably, though, John let out a tiny noise of frustration and picked up the shoes. Sherlock practically led him through a series of embarrassingly simple deductions – _like a toddler trying to walk_, John's mind supplied – before John got fed up and proclaimed that that was it.

"How did I do?" he asked, wondering if it was a stupid question.

Sherlock smiled encouragingly, the way one might smile at a child who was showing off a drawing. "Well, John, really well," he said brightly. "I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but you know…"

John tried not to smile as he handed over the trainers and let the consulting detective do his job.

"The owner loved these," Sherlock observed, staring at the shoe intently. "Scrubbed them clean, whitened them when they got discoloured, changed the laces three – no, _four_ times." John rolled his eyes at his friend's lazy precision. "Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his skin's come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. The shoe's well worn, more so on the inner side, which means the owner had weak arches. British made, twenty years old."

He flicked the laces nonchalantly out of the way and put the shoe down again. John knew this was where he was supposed to compliment him, but the childish part of him refused to give his flatmate the satisfaction. "Twenty years?"

Sherlock nodded shortly. "They're not retro, they're original. Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989."

"But they look new," John protested.

The detective made a lazy humming noise in the back of his throat. "Someone's kept them that way," he agreed. "There's quite a bit of mud caked on the soles, analysis shows it's from the Islington area, with Bloomsbury mud overlaying it."

"_How_ can you know that?" John asked.

"Pollen," Sherlock said, gesturing to the computer. "Clear as a map reference to me. So, the kid who owned those trainers was from Islington, he went to Bloomsbury as many as twenty years ago and left them behind."

John frowned at him, still reeling over the fact that his computer program could distinguish the mud from Islington from that of Bloomsbury. "So what happened to him?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Something bad," he mused dramatically. "Well, he loved those shoes, remember, he'd never leave them filthy, wouldn't leave them behind unless he had to. _So_, a child with big feet gets –"

Suddenly the detective fell silent; John looked at him, startled, to see that he was staring off into space with his mouth hanging open. When a soft _oh_ fell out of it, it was all John could do not to grab the man and press their lips together. "What," he asked instead.

"Carl Powers," Sherlock breathed, low and reverent.

John's ears rang. "Sorry, who?" he asked softly. He'd been thinking it slightly since Sherlock had mentioned the boy came from Islington, but he'd thought that it was only because he'd just seen Jim and he'd been thinking about that incident for months from being constantly in Sherlock's presence.

Sherlock drew a breath in through his teeth, still not looking at him. _"Carl Powers,_ John," he repeated softly.

John gritted his own teeth together and forced himself to ask, "What is it?"

A tiny smile crossed Sherlock's face as he shook his head minutely. "It's where I began."

* * *

><p>"You really don't remember, do you?" John looked over at the detective, smiling sadly. The taxi ride so far had been filled with Sherlock's retelling of how he'd read about the story in the newspaper and thought it was suspicious – but nothing of what had happened once he'd got to Bloomsbury. Strange as it was that he remembered such detail about immediately before and after, his flatmate really didn't seem to remember. Perhaps, John thought bitterly, he had <em>deleted<em> the information.

Sherlock smiled back without looking away from the window. "Remember what?" he asked. "That I met you at that swimming pool the day after Carl Powers died, and I kissed you and we…" John blinked. Sherlock smirked.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asked indignantly. "I've been sitting here for months now thinking I was the only one who remembered, feeling guilty for standing you up that day and thinking that maybe if I hadn't, things would have been different, and that whole time you _knew_?"

The detective snorted and shook his head, finally looking back at him. "They wouldn't," he said softly. "I didn't go either. If you'd gone you would have just sat there. I was too… it wasn't anything like what I'd told myself I wanted. We just weren't ready." He looked down at his gloves, fingers toying distractedly with the hem of the leather. "You didn't say anything either. I thought you… I knew you _remembered_, but I thought it just didn't leave as much of an impact on you as it did on me."

John shifted in his seat until he was facing his flatmate, his heartbeat loud in his ears. "_Didn't leave as much of an impact on me?_ Sherlock – I spent twelve years dating men who looked like you without knowing why. I came back from Afghanistan because I remembered you and I wanted to find you, just to see if you still remembered, and then when I got here I chickened out because how _could_ you still remember? I felt _awful_ for not turning up when we'd agreed to meet, and that was something that I regretted for _years_. And I always thought that it was so _stupid_, that an hour's encounter as a seventeen year-old could have such an impact on the rest of my life, but the fact is that I wouldn't be the same person I am now if I hadn't met you."

Sherlock stared at him. "Neither would I," he said eventually, his voice small. "When I met you I thought the entire world was dull and boring and that in order to get any kind of occupation, _anything_ to fill my mind with sense instead of noise, I'd have to struggle my way through absolutely everything by myself and I wouldn't be able to rely on anyone else." John could feel his heartbeat in his throat now, forcing him to swallow thickly. Sherlock was looking at him with this _expression_ on his face, as though he were right back there in that swimming pool, staring at John for the first time. "And then I met you, and you didn't get angry when I deduced everything about you, and you called me brilliant and amazing and you were willing to fight for me even though I'd only just met you. If I'd never met you back then, John, I'd be a bitter and lonely drug addict who'd never trusted anyone or let anyone in."

John smiled at his best friend; Sherlock tilted his head as though considering. "Or dead," he amended.

"All right, enough," John told him, slapping his arm lightly. Sherlock smiled softly, but there was no amusement in the expression. "If I meant all of that to you, why didn't you come to meet me?"

The detective shrugged lightly, looking away again. "It didn't even occur to me not to go for that entire afternoon, and then… a friend of mine laughed at you wanting to meet me, like there was no chance that I _would_ go. And then I realised that it was entirely uncharacteristic of me to want to _date_ someone, to want a conventional relationship, and it scared me that I'd accepted without even thinking that I wanted it with you." Staring out of the window, Sherlock snorted out a slightly derisive laugh. "I was completely smitten with you, John, I didn't think of anything else for days. In the end I didn't go because it unsettled me, and I didn't know how to slot the way I felt about you into the rest of my life. There were things I wanted to do, and I couldn't do them if I had you. And I thought it was so likely that you wouldn't go, because you looked so shocked when I left you. But… after that I sought out people I could talk to the way I wanted to talk to you."

John's mouth had fallen slowly open throughout the speech; he closed it. "That's exactly what I thought! You were such a _big_ personality, even then, even after only knowing you for an hour, I couldn't think about anything other than you and I thought… if I spent more time with you I'd be completely consumed by you. It scared me that all the reasons I had for _not_ meeting you were about things like not being able to enlist in the army if I had someone as important as you waiting at home, so I didn't go."

Sherlock smiled softly, but he had turned his face away again and was fiddling with the corner of the plastic evidence bag with Powers' shoes inside. "We were such different people," he said eventually. "If we _had_ tried to make something work it wouldn't have lasted long. We were in our last year of high school, we wouldn't have had more than four months before all the things we were frightened of, making all the big decisions with someone else in our lives, came true. _I _wouldn't have been able to deal with that, and I don't think you would, either."

_I would have given it all up for you_, John wanted to protest. But the part of his mind that was beginning to sound like Sherlock rebutted the argument straight away. He would have, but then he would have resented Sherlock for taking away his dream, and it wouldn't have lasted anyway. _And then who would I be?_

He shook his head. "I hated myself for not going. The moment I realised it was too late to change my mind I knew I should have gone. I was the first person you'd ever wanted, you said, and when you trusted me I stood you up."

"We just weren't ready for each other," Sherlock said quietly. His grey-green eyes flickered up to John's face for a moment before darting shyly back to the window.

John leaned forward, his heart thumping in his chest. "Are you ready now?" he asked, holding his breath in case the answer was _no_.

Sherlock pressed their lips together in a sweet kiss, just a shift of lips on lips until John pressed timidly forward with his tongue and Sherlock just as timidly received it, his hands taking root in John's jacket and holding there until the cabby thumped on the partition to separate them. The younger man panted out a laugh into John's ear. "I've wanted to do that for months," he confessed.

"Why didn't you?" John asked, feeling slightly indignant. They could have had this for _months_ and the Great and Powerful Sherlock hadn't noticed?

The detective smiled sheepishly. "I was so afraid you wouldn't want me to," he admitted shyly. "I didn't want you to leave."

John kissed him again. "Never."

Sherlock smiled, a gloved finger sweeping across John's cheek and pressing gently on his bottom lip. "We fit together so perfectly, John," he said, his voice breathless and almost childishly excited. "I feel like one of those utterly _ludicrous_ people in made-for-telly romances."

"I think," John mused, grinning stupidly, "people in made-for-telly romances don't have psycho bombers dumping evidence from personal cold-cases in their laps."

The detective grinned back. "Don't they?" he asked. He picked up John's hand and slid his long fingers between John's stubby ones. "That sounds a bit dull."

THE END


End file.
